The Oldest and the Wittiest
by 4444doodlemaru4444
Summary: Currently, Eliza was directing Angelica's attention to the man on her arm. His eyes met hers, curious, seeking understanding. He threw her from the first words he spoke. "You strike me as a woman who has never been satisfied." Wherein Eliza met Hamilton first, and chose for Angelica to be satisfied.
1. Satisfied

Eliza left her sisters' sides early on in the ball, feeling a vague desire to wander the edges of the dance floor. She was therefore right near the doors when some of the last soldiers entered the hall. She would have been perfectly content to keep walking, but one of them seemed to interpret her proximity as interest, and he introduced himself.

"Alexander Hamilton. My name is Alexander Hamilton"

"Elizabeth Schuyler. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Her mouth started going on autopilot as they began to exchange pleasantries, charming replies coming without her having the slightest recollection of what they were. All she could do was stare into the eyes of the man in front of her. Looking into Alexander Hamilton's eyes, she decided, was like nothing else in the world. She was drowning in them, but instead of it being frightening, she felt exhilarated, like she could fly into the air and land on the sun without getting singed. It was as if everything else was being reduced to blurs for as long as she stared.

With a start, she realized that everything else was, in fact, a blur. She was spinning – no, dancing. She had agreed to dance without realizing what she was doing, and now she was _dancing_ with _Alexander Hamilton_. Even while dancing, he conveyed restlessness, and she could feel the nervous energy in the hand she was holding.

"Do you like to write?" She asked him on a whim, because something about him conveyed urgency, a need for pen-on-paper.

He broke into a wide grin, and nodded. "About everything. Do you? Just the other day-" he began, and then launched into a speech, talking a mile a minute about the latest essay he'd been writing.

She grinned at him, more at his enthusiasm than at the subject matter. And she felt something else, too, something besides the soaring sensation of reveling in the presence of Alexander Hamilton. There was something important, some connection she needed to make.

"There's a million things I haven't done," he said now. "But just you wait." It's not just a phrase; coming from Hamilton, this is a solemn vow, a promise of things yet to come. And in that moment, Eliza began to realize what she recognized in Alexander. The energy, the intelligence, and the vast sense of potential, yearning to be realized, all of it was what she saw whenever she looked at Angelica. Looking at Alexander was like looking at a mirror of the light that came into Angelica's eyes whenever she touched upon an interesting problem.

She remembered seeing that light so often as a child, as they played together, as Angelica came up with new games and tricks, a boundless source of excitement and fun for the young Eliza. Whenever she was bored, she only had to look to her sister, and there was some new angle on the familiar room they were in, some new wonder to be imagined and delighted in.

Eliza didn't see that light as often, now that they were both growing up. She knew the pressures Angelica felt from their father, pressures that she, as the second child, was largely shielded from. To marry, to marry for wealth and prestige. Even if the husband was dull as a doormat. The weight of that responsibility had settled on Angelica more and more the older they had gotten, and Eliza's experienced eye could see it now as Angelica flirted and laughed, seemingly without a care in the world.

Nowadays, Angelica only really seemed to light up while they were alone, when she was doing something that wasn't quite proper. Going downtown, running around, and especially talking politics. The gleam in her eye as she read Thomas Paine was as bright as if it had never gone.

Eliza would do anything for Angelica's eyes to light up like that again, to stay bright and happy and excited forever.

Anything?

She was starting to see it, now, what she had been forgetting at first. Alexander had the energy to match her sister's. He might have what it took for Angelica to be truly happy, instead of subduing her light to adhere to what their father wanted.

But if that happened, she would have to give up Alexander.

It was ridiculous, to be so dramatic about someone she had met no more than ten minutes ago. But there was something about Alexander that would change the life of anyone who crossed his path. Eliza knew, with absolute certainty, that she could marry Alexander Hamilton. She would be happier than she had ever been in her life, and her calm would temper his fiery enthusiasm.

Or Angelica could marry him. Again, there was no trace of doubt, even though the two had never met. Their energies would meet, collide, grow into something fiercer and brighter than the world had ever seen.

And Eliza would have to move on.

Could she do that? She had Alexander here, right here in front of her, and she could just let history take its course. It would be so easy, to stay caught up forever in his beautiful eyes, to live out her life with him. Angelica would never have to know what could have been, could go on to marry some rich aristocrat. It would be a good future.

But Eliza remembered.

She remembered the day before her first ever ball, when she had broken one of her father's favorite vases. Angelica had taken the blame that day, had said that it had been her own fault, and had stayed home so Eliza had been able to go to the party she had been desperately looking forward to. It would have been so easy for her sister to have just let things be.

She remembered the bright summer day when her father had taken the three sisters to ice cream, a rare treat. Eliza had been seven that day, Angelica a year older, and Peggy a year younger, and Eliza had dropped her ice cream upside-down on the ground before she had taken a single bite. And as the tragedy was still registering in her brain, Angelica's ice cream was already under her nose, being pressed gently into her small hands. Angelica had refused to take a single lick, despite Eliza's offer to share. Angelica hadn't even hesitated.

Looking into Alexander's eyes for what felt like the final time, Eliza chose.

She began pulling him gently across the room to where Angelica was standing, trying to make sure no hint of regret showed on her face.

"I'm about to change your life."


	2. Helpless

Angelica Schuyler was the heart of the party. She had already claimed the hearts of most of the men at the ball and some of the women, and was industriously working on the rest. Her wit and charm dazzled the room, as she flirted and laughed with everyone who crossed her path.

She was bored. Completely, extraordinarily bored. Eliza had left her side, and she was usually the one Angelica whiled away the night with, when she didn't have to socialize. She was surprised to note that her sister was dancing, though she couldn't identify her partner from here. Eliza rarely danced, but Angelica was pleased that she seemed to be having a good time. Her sister would have a good time at balls if she just let herself enjoy them.

Of course, this particular ball was already a failure in Angelica's book. Half of the people there were just interested in her looks or her money, and their eyes unfailingly glazed over when she tried to turn the conversation to politics, or philosophy, or tactics, or anything remotely _interesting_. She had begun a new game with the crowd of gentlemen surrounding her, trying to see how flirtatious she could get without becoming scandalous. As soon as they were hooked and ready to spend their lives with her, she would switch, becoming as insulting as possible bar actual rudeness. It was somewhat cruel, she knew, but Eliza wasn't there to make her be her better self, and they were just so _dull_. So far, many were too dazed by her presence to even notice, and those that did were either confused or offended.

No one, no one could play those games to her level. She tried, sometimes, to just have a normal conversation, without adding additional layers of meaning to dance above. But it was like going to a museum with a blindfold, like reading a book with half the pages torn out. Angelica lived and breathed those delicate games of words, and she couldn't imagine living without them.

Of course, she could imagine it. She could imagine it all too well, which was the problem. She would marry rich to please her father and ensure good lives for her sisters, and she knew by now that there was no one interesting to talk to among the potential matches her father would approve of.

Eliza was coming over, dragging her dancing partner with her. Her heart rose at the sight of her younger sister. Eliza was the one person from whom Angelica never wanted another level of conversation, because with Eliza she didn't need games to entertain herself. Eliza was _good_ , and her kindness and sweetness radiated off her effortlessly. When Angelica talked to her, Eliza's sweetness seemed to infect her, making her a better person, maybe half the person Eliza was naturally. Angelica would take any political marriage in an instant, if it meant Eliza could be happy.

Currently, Eliza was directing Angelica's attention to the man on her arm.

His eyes met hers, curious, seeking understanding. He threw her from the first words he spoke.

"You strike me as a woman who has never been satisfied."

She was taken aback, and so became guarded, as the unexpectedness of this remark hit her.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean. You forget yourself," she responded, trying to steer the man back to familiar waters.

"You're like me," he clarified. "I have never been satisfied."

"Is that right?"

"I have never been satisfied."

It was like a sunrise, like electricity running up and down her skin. It was a dream, a dance, exhilarating and intoxicating all and once. She saw his words, saw the ties and threads connecting them, felt them brushing away the lethargy and sloth that coated her wit after years of disuse. She delighted, felt her mind begin to run at lightning speed, darting from possibility to possibility.

"My name is Angelica Schuyler."

"Alexander Hamilton."

"Where's your family from?"

"Unimportant, there's a million things I haven't done. But just you wait."

Flashes of insight passed before her eyes, connections were made, as she went over the most important points. He was poor. She could see it in his face, in his awkwardness as she asked about his family, in his quick change of subject. But did it matter? She knew as surely as she knew anything that the man was going places, that the energy behind his eyes would never let him lie idle. She knew his promise, his "just you wait" was a prophecy about to come true. And if her father stood in the way, what of it? Her wit combined with Alexander's could argue their way through any obstacle in the world.

She saw Eliza smiling her approval. If she had been paying a little more attention, if she had been a little less enraptured, she would have caught the pain behind that smile, would have changed her mind in an instant for the sake of her sister. But instead, there was nothing, just a single, small note of dissent amidst an orchestra of excitement, and her gaze returned to Alexander's.

They conversed the night away, just Angelica and Alexander, Eliza standing a little off to the side. The rest of Angelica's suitors were angry or disappointed, but she couldn't bring herself to care. The two spoke of the war, of England and their hopes for the new America, of the economy and all its flaws, of world affairs, of philosophers, of every topic that came to their minds. They matched each other word for word, jest for jest, brilliant idea for brilliant idea. When she went to bed that night, her mind was buzzing, and a day later a letter from Alexander had arrived, ideas continuing exactly where they were left off when she had said goodbye.

By a week later, she already lived for his letters, responding with impassioned points and lengthy arguments, marvelling at the feel of his words and the skill with which he deployed them. Eliza grew slightly sadder with each passing day, but she hid it as well as she could, and Angelica was too engrossed in the whirlwind that was Alexander Hamilton to see the pain hiding behind her sister's eyes.

Every moment not spent writing to Alexander, she was busy convincing her father that the man consuming her thoughts would be a fit husband, despite his poverty and family history. He was resistant, more so, she was sure, than if it had been one of her younger sisters hoping to marry a penniless orphan. But Angelica was persistent, and when Alexander finally came to dinner, he added his arguments to her own. There was only one possible conclusion, then, when Alexander asked Mr. Schuyler for her hand. The two were married a week later.

* * *

A/N: This story will continue through the end of the musical, and since this is just single-point-of-departure, there would be a lot of repetition if I rewrote every song in Hamilton. As is, please assume that any plot point I skip over happened just as it did in the musical, only offstage.


	3. That Would Be Enough

Angelica's letters had taken a new tone of late, Alexander noticed. He didn't know why, and he couldn't even quite describe the change. They were still as full of brilliance, wit, clever new ideas and scathing rebukes as ever, but his wife sounded by turns more excited, more secretive, and more biting, and he couldn't figure out why it was. He decided to take the opportunity to broach a topic he had long wanted to discuss.

Finally, my dear Angelica, I fear I have a confession to make. I have made promises I know I cannot keep, and I must tell you now, before this war is over, lest you accuse me of luring you into wedlock under false pretenses. I have promised my heart and soul to you in full, but despite the depth of my love I fear that none can ever lay claim to the entirety of either. I told you on the glorious day of our first meeting that there were a million things I hadn't done, and this remains true. I will complete them, all of them, as many as one man can in a single lifetime, or I shall die trying. There is part of my soul that will always be working ceaselessly, even when I return home victorious from this never-ceasing war, and I beg of you, dear Angelica, as my most exceptionally brilliant wife, that you do not become a wife who attempts to keep her husband home and quiet and ambitionless. My ambition, I fear, is too great a part of everything I am for me to try to give it up. Marrying me, my love, will mean nights alone, as I write until dawn for the sake of my ambition, and I beg of you not to leave me or condemn me for it, nor to attempt to separate me from so inseparable a part of myself.

Forever under your spell, Alexander

My dear Alexander,

As to your last point, I begin to wonder whether you know me at all. I would never, and indeed could never, prevent you from any ambition of yours, and I will gladly swear never to be the wife who holds her husband too close and keeps him from his work – though even upon your return, I will reserve the right to some exceptions. If, for instance, you endeavor to build a hut of papers in the middle of Central Park and live out your days there, I will be forced to interfere, if only to prevent the inevitable and irrevocable damage to any possible filing system as your papers are blown hither and thither across the meadow. But if you can expect something so out of the ordinary from my conduct as your wife, will you swear to be just as unusual a husband? For I, too, must warn you, that I will not take kindly to being pushed aside and prevented from my own schemes and plannings. I have ambitions as well, Alexander, and were I to have married a man such as John Church, a man as dull and ambitionless as any I have met, then I might have tolerated having them ignored, for I know he would be incapable of understanding all that I desire. But from you, Alexander, whose intellect matches my own, from you I will not accept having my own ambitions suffocated in the life of a demure wife.

Yours always, Angelica

My beloved Angelica,

I will happily so swear, never to dissuade you from your own ambitions, which I would be disappointed to learn were any less grand as my own. I would never dream of forcing you away from the greatness which I know awaits you, both because it would be unspeakably cruel, and because I would never wish to deprive this world of the glory of one of its most brilliant minds. Though I do wonder, beloved Angelica, if you have overestimated my capabilities, or else underestimated your own, in thinking I might ever prevent you from any goal you set your mind to. I would far sooner face a thousand of the king's best soldiers weaponless than face Angelica Schuyler Hamilton if I had raised her ire, especially now that I am prevented from fleeing, being already bound to you in holy matrimony.

Your loving husband, Alexander

He may not have solved the mystery of the changes in his wife's writing, but Alexander was intensely grateful that they had had that conversation. It was hard to be sure, but he thought Angelica grateful was too. By the time Alexander was forced to return home by General Washington, though, he was rather curious as to why Angelica's letters seemed so different. Was she hiding something? His mind had rifled through thousands of possibilities, working only off the vaguest of guesses. In fact, one of those ideas had been the correct one, but he hadn't given it much thought at the time. Nothing could have prepared him for seeing the truth of it, as he laid eyes on his wife for the first time in two months.

"You – You're pregnant!"

She raised an eyebrow dryly. "Really. I hadn't noticed." The sarcasm in her voice was belied by the slight smile playing about her lips.

"But – I – Why didn't you tell me?" There was hurt in his voice, though it was difficult for any emotion to get through the sheer vastness of the fact that _Angelica_ was _pregnant_. He was going to be a _father_!

Angelica's face grew more serious. "Because I knew you wouldn't come home, that you _shouldn't_ come home for this. And I didn't want you to catch a bullet because you were distracted by any news I might give you."

He knew she was right, but the knowledge still hurt. "You should have told me."

"Would you have come home?"

"I – No. No, I couldn't have. I shouldn't even be here now – I wouldn't be, if the General hadn't sent me away. The war's not done."

"And I wouldn't ask you to leave. Even if I would prefer you safe and by my side. Because that's what you're fighting for; this whole war, it's to create a nation in which our child will be free. And so you'll fight, and you'll win, and you'll come back, and we'll change the world as much as we can. And then we'll give the world to this child, and he'll do even better than we ever could."

Alexander didn't know what to say. It was rare for him to be caught speechless, but for the second time that day, words failed him. Everything he had wanted to say had been said, and the rest seemed unimportant in the wake of his wife's words.

"But there is one other thing, Alexander. I may not be able to join you on the battlefield, and I'm not going to keep you off it; I promised to respect your ambition, after all. But," Angelica said, eyes flashing dangerously, though her smile was not entirely gone "I see you have been publishing. You are married now, good sir, and you are to send me a copy of your manuscripts before you send them out for publishing, because being married means you don't do things alone, and I have critiques for you. For you, too, swore to heed my ambition, and that is certainly a part of it."

He looked up at his beautiful, amazing, brilliant wife as she kissed him on the cheek, smiling more broadly than he ever had in his life. He probably looked like a besotted idiot, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He _was_ a besotted idiot.

"But," she whispered in his ear, "if you die on me, Alexander, and leave this child fatherless, you will have worse things to worry about than the redcoats."

Make that his beautiful, amazing, brilliant, _terrifying_ wife. Well, that made sense. Any woman who would choose to marry Alexander Hamilton would have to be at least a little bit terrifying.


	4. Non-Stop

Angelica and Alexander worked. They did practically nothing else. They wrote ceaselessly on the Federalist Papers, Angelica the unofficial fourth person behind "Publius." When Alexander was chosen for the constitutional convention, they spent weeks discussing and debating until, with many compromises, they had a plan for a form of government they could both get behind. Perhaps they were working too hard, but what other chance would they get to shape a new nation?

They woke up every morning exhausted and wrote while they ate, wrote throughout the day, Alexander picking up a pen every spare second at the law firm, and every second when he got home. They wrote late into the night, never going to sleep before midnight. The little sleep they did get was fitful, frequently interrupted by their newborn son. They did more work than any other new parents would have believed possible, and still they did not cease. Philip's first birthday came and went, and his parents doted on him for a few minutes when they remembered to, and celebrated by going to bed early. Mostly, they worked.

Eliza came by to visit. She let herself in to find them both hunched over the kitchen table, pens scratching furiously. They seemingly had no need for communication. Angelica would check something in one of Alexander's papers, and Alexander would look over something in one of hers, with only the occasional word passing between the two. It was mesmerizing, as if the two knew each other's minds so well that there was no need for speech.

Philip was sitting in a crib next to them. Angelica was feeding him, but was clearly focusing most of her mental energies on the work spread out in front of her. Consequently, the food she was trying to spoon into the baby's mouth ended up missing more often than not, and Philip was entertaining himself playing with the resulting mess.

"I'm getting married," Eliza announced.

Her sister and brother-in-law jumped, not having noticed her arrival. Angelica gasped and got up to hug her immediately, excitement and concern, and, as always, exhaustion, showing in her face. Alexander's pen had stopped moving and he was staring at her, eyes full of something Eliza couldn't name.

"His name is John Church."

"Chuch?" Angelica asked, immediately going into protective mode. "Are you sure? Is he good enough for you?"

Eliza smiled softly. "He's kind, and he cares for me, –" _and he doesn't have the spark that you have, Alexander. But I made that choice a long time ago._ "– and I think I'll be happy with him."

"Then I'm happy for you," said Angelica decisively. "But – doesn't John Church live in London?"

"Yes. I'm leaving the day after tomorrow; I thought you ought to know."

Angelica hugged her sister even tighter. "If he gives you any trouble, ever, you must tell me at once, and I'll swim to London if I have to and give him a piece of my mind."

Eliza nodded, but she couldn't tear her eyes off of Alexander, who looked back at her unflinchingly, gaze still indecipherable and full of unknown emotion. _If I were his wife, he wouldn't have those dark circles under his eyes. I'd make sure he looked after himself._

She detached herself from Angelica and addressed the two of them. "I know you're doing important work, and it's not my job to stop you. But you – both of you – have a family now. When was the last time you paid the same amount of attention to Philip that you paid to to your writing?"

She was unsurprised, though a little saddened, to see the guilt in both faces. "Just … spend time with your son, okay?"

The two did love Philip, she knew, but they were both incurable workaholics and never had time to give him their full attention. Still, persistent reminders would do them good, for she knew that whenever they paused to look, Angelica and Alexander watched their son with a tenderness so heartfelt it almost hurt to see. But too frequently, they didn't pause to look at anything besides their work. She left a few minutes later, though not before extracting promises from both parents that they would try to put Philip first a little more often.

* * *

Not two days after Eliza's departure, during which the Hamiltons doted on their infant son incessantly, Alexander came home with news.

"Washington's offered me a job."

"Treasury or State?"

Alexander laughed briefly, but when he spoke he sounded vaguely dejected. "Treasury."

"Well, did you accept?"

"I, well, yes, but …"

"... but we promised Eliza," Angelica completed quietly. "And we owe it to Philip to be there for him."

"Exactly. And it feels like this is doing the opposite."

Angelica frowned, looking torn. She stayed conflicted for a moment longer, then seemed to make up her mind. She shook her head.

"Washington would have been mad not to hire you, and you would have been mad not to accept. I think I've had enough of mad leaders, haven't you?"

They both laughed. Then Angelica grew serious again. "As for Philip… we'll work it out somehow. Just getting a new job doesn't mean we can't do anything else, and we'll just have to find time for him. We'll work it out. And… treasury secretary! Alexander, think of what we can do for this whole country with you in charge of the treasury!"

They embraced. After a long moment, Angelica suggested a "celebration" in honor of Alexander's new job. He quickly agreed, and they practically raced upstairs to the bedroom, where the two promptly fell asleep, fully clothed, on top of the covers.


	5. The Debt Plan, Part I

Angelica handed the most recent copy of Alexander's debt plan back to him. The two had worked on it, editing and compromising and rewriting and sometimes flat-out arguing about it until finally they were both confident that every word was perfect. Indeed, with all the work the two of them had done, it might be more appropriate to call the plan theirs, rather than simply Alexander's, but since Alexander was the one who was Treasury Secretary, Angelica didn't mind the nomenclature.

"This is it?" he asked.

She nodded. "Exactly as you handed it to me. I couldn't find any corrections to make. It's written as well as it ever will be."

Alexander turned the paper over in his hands, staring at it like he couldn't believe it was real.

"That was the easy part, I'm afraid," Angelica continued.

"I know," he replied. "Now we have to get it through Congress. Any ideas on how to do that?"

Angelica grinned. "I think between the two of us we can figure something out."

* * *

The two decided that the best strategy would be to divide and conquer. About a third of the congressmen, they decided, were capable of being moved by reason, and could be persuaded by logical arguments as to how the debt plan would benefit the economy, the American people, and the country as a whole. The plan was for this group to become their base of support.

The second third of congress were the ardent Jeffersonians, people so ideologically opposed to the idea of a national bank that they were a lost cause. No amount of argument would change the congressmen's fundamental beliefs, and, however wrongheaded Angelica and Alexander thought them, the two grudgingly respected that at least the Jeffersonians were true to their principles.

The last third – Angelica called these the politicians, and Alexander didn't disagree – would be the true battlefield. These were the people who didn't care about the debt plan itself, only about the political points their vote could score them. And that was only the intelligent ones; there were plenty of politicians who would cast their vote, not for their constituents' benefits or their own, but simply due to sheer pigheadedness. The politicians would each have to be painstakingly wooed into voting for the plan

Almost all of the "logical thinkers" would have to be won over to Angelica and Alexander's side in order for the bill to pass. To this end, the two of them published essays and gave speeches, enumerating the multitude of advantages to Alexander's debt plan and demolishing every possible reason for disagreeing. Their papers were models of eloquence, points brilliantly stated, and Alexander's oration was phenomenal, with Angelica, as a woman, not being allowed to give speeches.

Just as the Federalist Papers had done, their essays were doing their work in shifting popular opinion among the intellectually inclined. Alexander tended to take the lead in their writings, though, because although Angelica was a brilliant author, even she admitted that there was something about Alexander's writing that might have even her beat. The man was practically born with a pen in hand.

Alexander's writing may have had slightly more pull with the more logical congressmen than Angelica's, but Angelica's social prowess far outstripped her husband's when it came to convincing the "politicians," who were more inclined to disagree with the plan from the get-go. She gossipped, went to social events, and hosted dinner parties. Lots, and lots, of dinner parties. She carefully selected every invite, choosing a few marks, all either congressmen or people who had a lot of pull among congressmen, plus people guaranteed to make the politicians enjoy the party, and then invited people chosen to be optimally persuasive.

For some congressmen, that would mean someone who agreed with Alexander's plan and was extremely religious, or who agreed with Alexander's plan and was from the congressman's hometown, or who agreed with the plan and would be willing to owe a few favors to someone who agreed with it too. In a few cases, it would mean someone who was loudly against the plan, and was also loudly an idiot, obnoxious, and already known to set off the congressman's competitive tendencies. In those situations, of course, loudmouth would have to be placed just near enough to the congressman to be heard, but still far enough that said congressman could still enjoy his evening.

Alexander was _not_ invited to Angelica's dinner parties. He helped in other ways, arranging guests lists and suggesting people who might be persuasive to particular targets, or the weaknesses of one congressman or another. But he had suggested, once, that he ought to come to the parties himself – saying it would make more sense if he was at the parties, since it was his plan. Angelica had _glared_ at him, and Alexander had suddenly come around to her way of thinking. Because if Alexander could write slightly better than Angelica could, Angelica could wipe the floor with him when it came to convincing people face to face.

Alexander was a genius, and a brilliant speaker, and Angelica loved him dearly, but place him in a room with someone who disagreed with him about politics, and twenty minutes later they would be blood enemies. He would also probably have insulted their lineage, their appearance, their taste in music, their hairstyle from a portrait taken twenty years before, and practically everything else he knew about them. And that was assuming he hadn't already punched them in the face or challenged them to a duel.

Place Angelica in a room with someone who disagreed with her, on the other hand, and twenty minutes later they would be inviting her over to meet their family, and would probably be half-convinced that she was right about whatever they had disagreed about anyway. All the toughest nuts to crack were given the honor of sitting next to her at the next dinner party. Most of them came around pretty quickly after that, and those that were still planned on voting no after more than two dinners with her were considered to be hopeless cases.


	6. The Debt Plan, Part II

Their combined efforts had paid off. Greater and greater numbers of both Senators and Representatives had begun to side with Alexander's bill, and by the time the numbers finally plateaued, they were better than anyone expected. Unfortunately, they were still not quite good enough.

"We're one vote short," Angelica said hollowly, looking up from her list of names. "We've got the Senate in the bag, but the House will go 32-33 against."

Alexander scanned the list, with its rows of checks and x's, scribbled out and rewritten again in the margins. "What about Tucker? I thought he was for us."

Angelica shook her head. "He was, but he got some letters from his district and now he's dead set against it. Apparently some wealthy planters aren't in support of the bill."

"How about Hiester? We thought he might be coming around."

She shook her head again. "We misread the signs. He's getting sympathetic on some other issues, but refuses to come around on this one."

Alexander cursed quietly. "And there no more likely prospects?"

She twisted her lips bitterly. "George Matthews says he'll vote for it if we give him $500,000. But short of outright bribery, no. I've hit dead ends everywhere. Anything on your end?"

He looked rueful. "Things are pretty much drying up. There's only so many people who are willing to listen to reason, no matter how many essays you write. I don't think we'll get another vote that way. So do we have to find $500,000?"

"I hope not. We may have one other option, but you won't like it."

"Just tell me."

"Thomas."

Alexander stared at his wife in disbelief. "By Thomas, you don't by any chance mean Thomas Jefferson? The man who has opposed us most firmly of anyone and is my personal sworn enemy? Or has Thomas Sinnickson magically grown a second vote? Please tell me he's grown a second vote."

"No, Thomas as in Thomas Jefferson. And I think having two votes is illegal."

"Have I mentioned how weird it is that you're on first name terms with one of my sworn enemies?"

He had, in fact, mentioned that. Many times.

"Alexander, you have about twenty sworn enemies." Angelica didn't think this would be a good time to remind her husband that she was actually quite good friends with Thomas. "Besides, I'm on first name terms with everyone."

"You're not on first name terms with Burr."

"Fair enough. But in my defense, no one's on first name terms with Burr. Can you imagine calling him Aaron? It'd just be weird. I'm not even a hundred percent sure Theodosia's on first name terms with Burr, and she's his wife. But I'm on first name terms with her, and that's almost as good."

Alexander nodded understandingly. "So you're on first name terms with everyone except for Burr, who might as well not have a first name. But back to the issue at hand, Jefferson? He's not even in the House."

Angelica rolled her eyes. "You know as well as I do that if Jefferson endorses your bill, half the House will accept it too."

"And that's really our only option?"

"Not unless you have five hundred grand."

Neither of them mentioned the possibility of giving up. Neither of them was the sort of person to even consider it as a possibility.

"So how do we do it?" asked Alexander. "I don't suppose you could try to persuade him using your feminine charms?" His voice was a mix of joking and desperate.

Angelica grinned. "I could, but would you really want me to? I mean, Thomas is pretty good looking. What if I decided I liked him better than you?"

Alexander smiled, though he pretended to look offended. "You, choose Jefferson over me?" he gasped theatrically. "Would that you would choose anyone else!"

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And who would you rather I chose over you?"

" _Anyone_. I would rather you abandon me for … John Adams, than for Jefferson."

Now it was Angelica's turn to feign looking offended. "John Adams! Surely you do not think I have _that_ poor taste?" Then her look turned sly. "Though I've always lamented that you shoot off at the mouth too much to ever have a shot at the presidency. Maybe if I'd married John Adams I might have gotten to be first lady someday."

This time, Alexander did not have to fake his horror. "You don't think _John Adams_ could ever become president, do you?"

"God, no. The idiot's never had a real job, can you imagine what he'd do as president? He'd run the country to ruin in a month!"

Alexander laughed, then sobered up. "So feminine wiles are out?"

"I'm afraid so," replied Angelica. "It's politics. We need to give him something his side wants."

Alexander frowned. "But the only thing we have that he wants is…"

They both saw it at the same time.

"The capital," they said together.

Alexander groaned, and cradled his head in his hands. "I know, it's just… the capital? For one vote? We're _one vote away_."

Angelica sighed, putting her arm around him. "I know. I feel the same way. It feels like giving up, doesn't it?"

He nodded miserably. "And like losing to _Jefferson_. I really thought we could do it."

"So did I. Still … I suppose the important thing is the bank, and we'll still get that."

Alexander shook his head dejectedly. "I guess we should start making plans. We can approach him in a few weeks."

Angelica agreed, although she knew it wouldn't really take weeks to make the plans. For she also knew that Alexander, and she herself, would need the time to recover from this failure.

* * *

The mood in the Hamilton household was grim. Which made it surprising when, two weeks after their initial surmise, Angelica came bounding into the house, beaming.

"Alexander!"

"What is it?"

"I have good news – well, it's not exactly good news – I mean, properly it ought to be _bad_ news, but – well, I guess I should just call it news –"

"What you're saying," Alexander interrupted, "is that you have news that would be bad for most people but is good for us."

"Exactly!"

"What's the news?"

"Theodorick Bland is dead."

"What?"

" _And_ , his seat in the House is going to be taken by William Giles."

"Is that any better? I thought Giles hated the plan."

"He does," replied Angelica, smiling even wider " _but_ , his father, William Giles Senior, served with my father in the war. We met once or twice as children, I recall. So I invite him over as consolation for his friend's death, and ask for a personal favor. He accepts, we have our vote and we still have the capital."

"But won't it be a little obvious you just want to see him because he's suddenly got power? He might not want to come."

Angelica smirked. "Not if the invitation comes from my dear sister Peggy, who has nothing to gain from William becoming a Representative, and who simply wants to comfort a family friend in a time of need. I just happened to be invited along for the reunion."

Alexander stared at his wife with something akin to worship. "My dear, you are the most cunning, devious person I have ever met, and I work in politics. Can I just say how glad I am I married you?"

Angelica laughed, giving her husband a quick kiss. "You mean, how glad you are I'm on your side."

Alexander laughed as well. "That too, love. That too."

* * *

The debt plan passed in the House two weeks later, with a margin of 33-32.


	7. Schuyler Defeated

A/N: You'll understand what's going on without it, but this is heavily based off of the off-broadway "Schuyler Defeated" and the subsequent song "Let It Go," so if you want to listen to those before reading this, you can.

* * *

In retrospect, Burr thought, he probably should have realized that his victory against Philip Schuyler in the senate race would enrage Hamilton. If he had realized that, perhaps he could have prepared himself for the inevitable confrontation.

"Burr!" The man had banged on Burr's door until he'd finally opened it, and now was standing on his doorstep, visibly furious. "Since when are you a Democratic-Republican?"

On the other hand, he reflected, being prepared probably wouldn't have done much. An angry Alexander Hamilton wasn't something one could ever be prepared for. Still, probably better to have as much fun with it is as he could.

Burr shrugged with as much artful nonchalance as he could manage. "A few months now," he said casually.

Hamilton was practically vibrating with fury. "You know what I mean!"

Burr feigned a look of dawning realization. "Oh, you mean _why_ am I a Democratic-Republican. You really should phrase your questions less ambiguously." He paused for a moment to let Hamilton wind up even more, then continued. "I would have thought that would be obvious. It got me a senate seat."

"My father-in-law's senate seat, you treacherous snake! I thought you were my friend, and now it turns out you're nothing more than a backstabbing Brutus!" Hamilton looked a moment away from breathing fire.

"I think you may be exaggerating, Alexander. I got elected to the senate, I didn't stab anyone to death on the floor of it." He was actually quite enjoying himself by now. Hamilton was ridiculously easy to wind up.

"Nonetheless, you willfully betrayed your beliefs with the express purpose of bringing down my family –" Hamilton was cut off as his wife suddenly appeared behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Mrs. Hamilton," Burr greeted. He almost called her "Ms. Schuyler," but luckily had stopped himself in time from committing such a faux pas. He just couldn't see her as a Hamilton. "Angelica Schuyler" was a name synonymous with subtlety, while the name "Hamilton" was associated with about as much subtlety as a bull in a china shop. Calling her "Hamilton" was just plain incongruous.

Burr had never been quite sure what to think of the woman. She had never hidden her dislike of him, and, unlike most society men, he had never fallen subject to her charms. Even so, he still held a certain respect for the way she could twist suggestions and quiet words to her own advantage.

"Mr. Burr, I do hope your family is well. I have missed Theodosia at our gatherings this past week; I do hope she is not ill."

He was shaken out of his musings by Angelica's gentle inquiries. She seemed to be keeping her husband pretty well in check, and although he was plainly still seething, he stayed quiet while Angelica spoke.

"My wife has, alas, been feeling poorly, though she believes she will be well soon," Burr answered.

Angelica gave a sympathetic smile. "Please do give her my best wishes for her improved health, and tell her that society is far more dull with her absence."

He nodded in reply. "I will be sure to pass your regards along."

"And you, Mr. Burr?" Angelica continued smoothly. "How is your new party treating you?"

He had to admire the question, the barb so well hidden within a facade of politeness that you wouldn't notice it until it had already speared you through. Luckily, he was adept at such games, and intercepted the danger with a politician's reply.

"My new _position_ ," he responded, a delicate inflection on the word, "is proving quite beneficial to both myself and the people I serve."

She smiled sweetly. "I am delighted to hear you are adapting so well. I only hope that you shall prove more loyal to your constituents than you are to your ideals."

That was an outright declaration of hostilities, but somehow was spoken with such flawless delivery that the insult sounded like it were merely another bit of polite conversation. It was masterfully done. Burr attempted to defend himself in kind, still sounding embarrassingly blunt by comparison.

"I do hope I have not caused offense, Mrs. Hamilton. I did not believe changing political parties to be an immoral act, but I could not live with myself if doing so had somehow caused your ire."

Angelica's smile remained charming, even as the words she spoke became colder. "There is indeed nothing wrong with changing parties, if the reasons behind the change are sound. When the motives are less than pure, then the act too becomes sullied."

"And what motives do you imagine me to have, Mrs. Hamilton?"

"Rivalry? Pettiness? Many possibilities present themselves, but what remain are facts. You have called my husband your rival, Mr. Burr. You have confessed yourself envious, that his political rise had not been mirrored by your own. You have said a good many things about him, most of which I have neither the time nor the inclination to repeat here. And the fact that the man you changed parties to run against happened to be Alexander's father-in-law does not strike me as coincidental."

Burr hid his shock well. How had she known? Had she been watching his home? No, surely that was ridiculous. But how could she have possibly found out? "I am quite sure I have said no such things of Mr. Hamilton."

"Not in public, certainly. But you did say as much to Theodosia, who mentioned it to me." Angelica grinned at his astonishment, baring her teeth. "Men never do seem to realize that women talk to each other."

There was a pause as Burr's brain was caught completely by surprise and tried to recover. Angelica seemed to realize he wasn't going to speak, because she continued after a few seconds.

"In any case, Mr. Burr, you miscalculated when, in your petty jealousy, you humiliated a Schuyler. As you will shortly learn, the other Schuylers tend not to take humiliation lying down. And we can be dangerous when angered."

She swept away, her husband trailing dumbly after, leaving Burr standing there, shocked.

* * *

Alexander was blazing with energy when he and Angelica returned home. He turned to his wife, fierce determination etched in every line of his face. "One good article, and he'll never be elected again. Write it with me. Help me take him down."

"No."

Alexander, who had already been making his way towards his desks, halted mid stride, confused. "What – why not? I thought –"

"I won't be helping you, because _you_ won't be doing anything." Angelica's face was set. "This wasn't just about you, Alexander. This was about my father. If Burr strikes at you, you can strike back. If he strikes at a Schuyler, _I_ will be the one who strikes back."

Alexander stared at her for a long moment. She met his gaze steadily, face hard and determined. His anger met its match in hers, and after a pause he nodded his acquiescence. He swung around a chair and sat down in a posture the two often used to run through the other's ideas. "So what are you going to do? Do you want to ruin his career?"

Angelica sat down and seemed to weigh her options. Her eyes were far away, calculating risks, rewards, and implications. "No," she said finally. "No, that would be an … overreaction. He wasn't trying to ruin anyone, and the most important element in any revenge is scale. This isn't just me lashing out because someone hurt my father. This is a precise, political response to an unacceptable behavior."

Alexander grimaced. That was not how he would have responded, nor was it the type of response he approved of. But he had agreed to let Angelica handle this, which meant he couldn't interfere. "Then what do you intend to do?"

Angelica's expression was calculating again. "It will be a humiliation. Nothing more, nothing less. That will settle it. And," her eyes caught his, "if Burr is foolish enough to do something like this again, neither of us will hold back. I'm running out of patience for him."

* * *

A month later, Burr sponsored his first bill in the Senate. It was nothing major; an addendum to a bill regarding the proper time for the choosing of electors for the Presidential election, detailing plans in the case of a vacancy in the position. The addendum was not particularly interesting, nor was it controversial, and most Senators were in favor of such an action.

Yet somehow, people who had once been in support of the clause seemed to suddenly change their minds, after a dinner party, or a discussion with their wife. The motion failed horrendously, 23-1 against, with Burr's being the only "yea" vote. It set a new record for the least support for a proposed bill, a record it would hold for the next ninety years.


	8. Take a Break, Part I

"Mama?"

Angelica looked up with a start from where she was sitting at the dining room table, having been too caught up in her work to notice her son's approach.

"What is it, Philip?"

"Can you play with me? I'm bored and Daddy hasn't been home since yesterday."

She sighed. Turning down that hopeful face was almost impossible, but if she didn't send this letter by today, the opportunity would be lost. She knew if she went off with Philip she wouldn't be able to finish it on time.

"I have to write now," she said regretfully. "Why don't you go play with your sister? I'm sure Elizabeth would love to play with you."

Philip pouted. He always preferred playing with adults to spending time with his younger sister, Angelica knew.

"But Mama…"

"I'm busy," she replied firmly.

* * *

A sudden noise startled Angelica as she looked up from what she was writing – a journal article this time – and saw Philip trying unsuccessfully to conceal a yawn. When he saw she was looking at him, he squirmed in his seat and tried to leave, but his mother caught his arm.

"What are you doing here?" she asked curiously. It wasn't like Philip to stay quiet for long, and she suspected he'd been sitting by her, unnoticed, for at least half an hour.

Philip turned red. "I… I wanted to see what you were writing about, Mama. Something about national economics?"

Angelica looked at her son in surprise. The corner of her paper nearest to Philip did indeed say "national economics"; in fact, they were the only two words on that side of the page that were capitalized, and so were the logical choice in guessing the possible subject of the paper. Nonetheless, she wouldn't have thought he was interested in reading her papers at all, let alone care enough to have the patience to read her elegant handwriting upside down.

"Yes, national economics. Did you read that off of my page just now?"

He looked down. "I just wanted to see what you were writing about. What are they?"

Angelica laughed. "It's very big and complicated, sweetie, and explaining it would take a lot of time. It's a lot of what Daddy and I do for work." Seeing her son's downcast expression, she softened a little. "I have to finish this article now, but if you really want to know, you can ask me again tomorrow, and I'll explain as much as I can."

Philip brightened immediately and nodded vigorously, looking like he had been entrusted with a mission of vital importance. "If I leave now, you can finish sooner and then you can teach me sooner, right?" This was a frequent saying in the Hamilton household, primarily used to get the younger children out from underfoot, but Philip seemed to have taken it to heart. He was already out of his chair and on the way to the door, excited at the prospect of the next day's lesson.

* * *

If Angelica had expected Philip to lose interest by the following afternoon, she would have been wrong. She came downstairs to her usual spot in the dining room after settling baby James into a nap to find Philip waiting expectantly for her. She sat down and began to speak, automatically going into lecture mode.

"Economics is all about paying money. You know how we go down to the market sometimes, and I give the shopkeeper money, and they give me some food, or a book, or a picture."

Philip nodded his understanding as Angelica continued. "Economics is like that, but on a much bigger scale. Now, imagine there are two shopkeepers and they're both selling books. Now, both of them want me to buy their books so they can get money from me. One of the shopkeepers might try getting really good books, so I really want to buy them, while the other might try to make his books as little money as possible, so I would be able to buy them without worrying about spending too much."

"But if they ask for less money, won't they get less money? Why would the shopkeeper do that, Mama?"

"They wouldn't get less money if they sold more books. And more people might go to them because they only want to spend a little money on books, instead of paying a lot at the other stall. In fact…"

Thus began a strange routine. Every day, Angelica would come downstairs and find Philip already sitting down, waiting for another lesson in economics. Often, the lessons had to be cut short, because she had a social event to attend or writing to do, and sometimes she had to tell Philip that she would have to work the whole evening, and wouldn't have time to teach him anything at all. On many days, though, they would sit together in the dining room, Angelica explaining, Philip asking frequent questions. Angelica was a good teacher, and found Philip a fast learner and an enthusiastic student, though she had to simplify all of her lessons a certain amount before Philip could digest them. He was only eight, after all, and however eager, was a long way from understanding economics at an adult level.

Despite this, when his mother was busy writing a paper, Philip would frequently ask her what she was writing about, and he would attempt to follow along with her simplified explanations, instead of continuing where the previous day's lesson had ended. He inevitably found himself far out of his depth during those conversations, and it was rare for him to understand any of Angelica's more complex points, but he tended to get the general subject matter. Nonetheless, he seemed to enjoy hearing about his mother's essays, despite how little he truly understood of them, and asked about them with regularity.

For her part, Angelica enjoyed explaining her essays out loud, and found that her son's innocent questions forced her to slow down her thinking, often allowing her to see it with greater clarity. The mere process of speaking her ideas out loud to a listening ear, even one who couldn't understand much of what he heard, was of surprising aid when she didn't know where to go next in her writings.

* * *

"Mama, what does Daddy write about?"

Angelica had been teaching Philip for a few weeks now, and this was a new question for them. She paused mid-explanation in surprise. "You've never asked him?" It hadn't occurred to her, given Philip's frequent queries as to the subjects of her writings, that Alexander might not have been subject to the same questions.

"Daddy only writes at work," complained Philip, "or in his office, but I'm not allowed in there." The boy pouted, clearly still sore on the point.

None of the Hamilton children were allowed into their father's office. The rule had been instated a few years previously, after an incident when Philip, unbeknownst to his mother, had decided the room would be a good place for the game. Alexander had gotten home that night to find that his papers were no longer neatly filed or piled on his desk, but instead strewn all throughout the house, turning up for weeks afterward under beds or behind sofas. After that, he had made it clear that the kids were not allowed into his office. The rule didn't apply to Angelica's office for the simple reason that she didn't have one. Alexander had asked her when they moved in if she wanted one, especially since aside from networking and socializing, she did all her work at home. Angelica, though, had declined. She preferred working in wider, more open areas, hence doing most of her work in the dining room.

Philip looked at her hopefully, and Angelica dutifully began outlining in simplest terms what Alexander wrote about. It was strange, she couldn't decide how she felt about Philip coming to her about Alexander's work. On one hand, it made her feel warm, because it meant these discussions were a bond Philip had only with his mother. On the other, she was sad, and perhaps disappointed in her husband, that he had no such bond with his son. And she knew, too, how easy it would have been for her never to have had that bond either. If she had had an office, for example, she might have brushed her son away, and Philip would have spent that time … playing with Elizabeth, she supposed. She never seemed to have quite enough time for her other children, or for Philip when it wasn't about work. And she remembered, again, what Elizabeth's namesake, her own darling sister, had told Angelica and Alexander before leaving for London. _When was the last time you paid the same amount of attention to your children that you paid to your writing?_


	9. Take a Break, Part II

There was nothing Angelica and Alexander loved more than debating. They could debate each other for hours, getting more and more passionate about each point, until they finally exhausted themselves, and reconciled with a laugh and a kiss. At the moment, they were debating the relative merits of the philosophies of Voltaire, Rousseau, and Kant, as well as how they ought to apply to systems of government. An old source of disagreement between them, the debate had been started by Alexander's reminder that he was more a constitutional monarchist than a proponent of true democracy.

The debate was reaching its most heated point, between historical examples and pure philosophical ideas and current government policies, and Angelica was rapidly dismantling Alexander's most recent argument. Alexander was shaking his head ferociously, but nonetheless waiting for her to finish speaking before he began his reply.

At that moment, Elizabeth wandered into the room. She looked between her mother and her father and her lower lip began to tremble.

"Why are you fighting?"

Angelica stopped mid sentence. She and Alexander looked at their daughter, who looked about to cry. They looked at each other, both looking fiercely indignant. They looked back at their daughter. At the exact same time, they both burst out laughing.

Elizabeth wasn't quite sure why her parents were laughing, but it was better than fighting, so she joined in, and that night the Hamiltons left off philosophy to be with their young daughter.

But neither parent was one to back down from a debate, and Angelica was not surprised to wake up to a stack of papers on her bedside table that contained her husband's responses to her final points. Nor was Alexander surprised to find a stack of papers the following morning detailing his wife's response. And so it went, on a variety of different topics, until it was more common for either of them to wake to an essay than not.

* * *

Alexander kept up an essay correspondence with his wife, though she was never more than a moment away, but he also kept up a correspondence of letters with her sister off in London.

Oh Loveliest, Eliza!

Have you tired of London society yet? I have always known it to be vastly inferior to our own here in America, but as you belong to the former, and are showing no signs of imminent departure, I may be forced to reconsider. After all, how could your presence do anything but raise the standard of all of London's venerable aristocracy? And the society of this humble nation must, in turn, have diminished with the loss of your radiance. Though I maintain that my offer is still open for you to run away, back to the land you so cruelly abandoned, and live out your days in a hut on the great frontier, where every day I shall bring you sweet berries and nectar to your heart's content. I pride myself that this is quite a good proposition, and am most baffled by your continued refusals.

As to your questions, the children are doing well. I would tease you for asking the same question with every letter, but your repeated questions are likely the only reason they are doing well and have not been forgotten. We tell them tales of your heroism, and I do believe they think of you, not only as godmother, but as fairy godmother and guardian angel as well. Elizabeth in particular wants to be like her aunt, whom she believes to be some sort of mythical hero who saves small children from distracted parents. And lest you fear that coming to meet them would disillusion them from their fantasies, I must assure you that seeing you in person will only convince them all the more, as indeed I am convinced, that you are secretly a host of heaven, come down to grace us poor overworked mortals with your presence.

Adieu and all best, Alexander

* * *

"Have you finished your report for Washington yet?" Angelica asked, standing in the doorway of Alexander's office.

"Not quite," he replied, turning his pen over in his hand before tapping it against his chin. "I've got a few points left to make."

Angelica came forward, looking interested. "Let me look over it, I'll tell you what I think." Then she shook her head, as if clearing it. "But I'll do it later, you don't have to be done with it until tomorrow. Right now, there's a surprise waiting. Come on in, Philip."

Philip, who had been waiting outside, came in, a little nervous, but excited, holding a paper in his hands.

Angelica introduced him. "Alexander, it's Philip's birthday today. He's written something from school to show you."

Philip had had to write a page-long essay for school. It was called "My Dad's Job in National Economics." He had taken the little Angelica had told him about what Alexander did, and had combined it with his limited knowledge of economics, and had written out what he thought one of Alexander's essays might look like. It was quite ingenious, and his teacher had been very impressed. Angelica had been amazed and proud when Philip had brought it home and shown her. But the one person Philip most wanted to impress was the one sitting at his desk with ink stains on his forehead. He began to read aloud.

Alexander was awestruck. He didn't listen to his children as often as he probably should, and when he did they always blew him away. But this time … this time was special. Here was his son, showing a breadth of knowledge he hadn't known the boy possessed, and using it to try and emulate _him_. He clapped and cheered, and couldn't seem to help the tears that pricked his eyes, both from pride in his son, and the creeping feeling that he didn't deserve the respect his son was giving him. Every time Alexander brushed off spending time with him, and Philip still came out with _this_.

"Hey, our kid is pretty great," he said to Angelica, a silly smile on his face.

She smiled in agreement. "I know. You forget, don't you?"

He nodded. It was their curse, he supposed, to be blessed with such brilliant children and to always forget in the face of everything there was to do. So much of the time, the only person who appreciated the children as much as they deserved was the Schuyler sister living an ocean away.

* * *

Dearest Alexander

Perhaps time and distance have indeed dulled your memory of me, because the last time I checked I had no wings and no halo. I probably would think I deserved them, though, if I believed every compliment you gave me. And while London is a wonderful city, and I live here, so Patriotism tells me it is far better than America, it would be wrong of me to think it is any improved because of my presence. As much as I might like to listen to your honeyed words forever, I must remind you that I am happily married here in London, and therefore it would not be a good idea for me to run away to you in America.

I am heartened by your report on your children, and I hope Elizabeth isn't too in awe of me to hug me when we finally do meet. I think you may have misunderstood the purpose of my regular questioning, though. I was asking you to tell me what they have done recently, not to just say they're "well," and then add your own thoughts. If my repeated questions tire you, know that I do it out fear that you will never sit down with your children and let them tell you about their lives without my prompting. So I ask again: How are your children? What are they doing? But do not tell me in your next letter; tell me in person this summer instead.

Yes, you read correctly. I will be visiting America this summer. I have written to Angelica, and I have made plans to go upstate to my father's house with your family. Please do come with us.

Eliza


	10. Take a Break, Part III

Eliza knocked on the door after her long journey from England, which promptly swung open to reveal –

"Angelica!" Eliza exclaimed, pure joy filling her at the sight of her sister's face.

"Eliza!" replied Angelica, face split into a huge, heartfelt smile.

The two sisters fell into each other's arms, each rejoicing in the company of the other.

In Eliza's opinion, the entire long boat ride, dreadful, dreadful seasickness and all, was worth it, just for this moment. Letters couldn't replicate the simple happiness of being in the presence of her sister and lifelong friend. Angelica, who she always confided in. Angelica, who was always there for her, who always loved her without reservation. Angelica, who always had the words for when Eliza didn't know what to say, knowing that Eliza would make the silence, when Angelica's words were useless. Angelica and Eliza. Eliza and Angelica. They were sisters, and they completed each other.

The embrace ended, and she returned to the present.

"Welcome," came a voice from the hallway.

Eliza looked behind her sister, and her eyes fell on the only reason she had ever lied to Angelica.

Alexander.

He was staring at her, face full of an emotion that could so easily have become love, if only she'd let it.

Her breath hitched as she looked into his eyes. They were exactly the same as she remembered; the same color, the same shape, the same energy burning within. The same feeling of soaring helplessness, as she gazed into them. The same wish, cruel and as strong as it had ever been, to wake up to those eyes every day of her life –

She had thought she had moved on. She was happy with her family, happy with her life in London. She could write to Alexander without being taken in by his words, without longing for what might have been, satisfied to live out the life she had chosen for herself. And now here she was, face to face with him and just as helpless as she had been when they'd first met.

But Eliza was here, now, with Angelica and Alexander, and there was no point wishing for what could have been. She would be with the two of them for the whole summer, before she went back to what was feeling increasingly like her exile in London.

Angelica turned around, unaware of the turmoil her sister was feeling. She spoke, smiling, to Alexander, one arm still around Eliza's shoulder. "See, she's here, and all in one piece! I told you she'd make it here all right. So you can get over your pointless fretting and finally start packing!"

She leaned towards Eliza, and said in a stage-whisper, "He's been refusing to pack until you arrived, you know. Said it was bad luck."

Eliza grinned. "It'll be a lot more bad luck if he can't get packed in time. Imagine if he left his ink behind, he wouldn't survive the summer!" She turned to address her brother-in-law. "You should get started soon. Do you need help?

Alexander hesitated. He looked torn, staring between Angelica and Eliza with longing, before shaking his head. "I – I'm not packing. I'm sorry. I can't come with you."

Angelica stared at him, the smile melting off her face. It was Eliza who spoke up first.

"What do you mean?"

"I – I just, I have so much to do. The most important work of my life is happening _right now_ , and I can't, I mean, I _can't_ , just put it all off for two months. I'll lose my job. I'll lose my legacy."

"Alexander…" Angelica was still looking at him, a far off expression on her face. "You won't lose your job. That's just hyperbole. I _know_ there's more you want to do, but it doesn't have to be now. _Eliza_ 's here. She came all the way across the ocean and she's _here_."

"Alexander," Eliza echoed, though she didn't continue. She didn't have any words, none that she could say out loud. Not here and now, not in front of her sister, not to the man she had chosen not to marry.

Alexander looked pained, but he continued. "There are so many things that need doing! You know there are, and for every motion I don't get passed, Jefferson will pass the opposite, and …" he trailed off.

Angelica crossed the room to where her husband was standing and took hold of his hand in both of her own. "We passed the debt plan, Alexander. It's done. And now you're saying there's more to do, and there _is_ , but there will _always_ be more to do, can't you see? And in the meantime our children are growing up, and we don't notice it."

She looked at her husband, eyes conveying a silent plea. "Just because you'll never be satisfied doesn't mean you can never leave your work. I know there's always more to do. But now, just this once, I'm asking you to take a break. Come away for one summer. Let yourself make that choice, to have one summer to spend with your family, one summer to remember. I swear nothing dreadful will come of it."

"There's so much I have to do." Alexander's face was impassive, as if he knew any emotion would weaken his resolve.

"Alexander, I came across the ocean to see you." This was Eliza, her voice quiet and soft. She crossed the room to join her sister, taking Alexander's other hand in hers. "It's beautiful upstate. You'll like it there."

"You can stay there with us. It'll be beautiful, and we can go out in the park together, watch the sunsets and see the stars," entreated Angelica.

"You can't see the stars in the city," Eliza added. "Don't you remember them? Haven't you imagined them, sometimes? You can't see them in London, either."

Eliza had always loved the stars. Even in the nighttime, they shone, adding their little points of light to the darkness. Even if they were so far away as to be unreachable, their light and beauty was still visible, illuminating the sky when all else was dark.

"Come away with us, just for the month, Alexander."

Eliza searched her brother-in-law's face. He seemed transfixed. In that moment, she couldn't help but think him like the moon, shining with the brightness that surrounded him, yet still fixed in his course, as hard and unmovable as rock.

"You want to build something that will outlive you?" She wasn't usually one for debating, but she knew that this was always the one most important subject for Alexander, the argument he would always care most about. "Your family will outlive you. If you're a part of their lives, if you let yourself be a part of their lives, _they'll_ remember you when you're gone." She didn't understand why he never seemed to realize that, always saw the choice as legacy or family, without realizing they were the same. "So come with us, Alexander. Please?"

Alexander pulled away from them slowly. He shook his head. When he spoke, it was with finality. "I can't stop. I have so much work to do." Before either sister could stop him, he turned and walked up the stairs, and Eliza could hear his footsteps enter a room, then heard the door close, and the click of a lock.

Alexander still hadn't left his office when the carriage pulled up, leaving Eliza, Angelica, and the children had no choice but to depart without him. As they rode away, Eliza couldn't shake the lingering feeling that Alexander's stubbornness would get him into terrible trouble some day.


	11. Burn

It was six years later that the Reynolds Pamphlet was published. On that day, Alexander walked into his house to find Angelica sitting inside waiting for him.

"Angelica," he said, uncertainty lacing his voice.

"Alexander," she replied, standing up to greet him. He looked into her eyes, seeking some sort of sympathy. He found nothing but fury.

"Explain."

"I had to protect my career," he began, trying to get her to understand why he'd _had_ to publish the pamphlet.

"Liar." Her voice was harder than he'd ever heard it. "Your career is in _tatters_. Your enemies aren't even bothering to attack you because you've already done more to ruin your career than they ever could. Try again."

"I was accused of embezzlement! If I hadn't proved them wrong, they would have destroyed everything I've worked for!"

"Everything _we've_ worked for, Alexander." Angelica's words were harsh and biting. "I had as much part in passing your plans as you did. So do please explain," she continued silkily, "why you didn't wish to _consult_ me on such an important decision, when I was just as vested in your work as you were?"

He began to speak, but she continued before he could get out the first word.

"And before you do that, explain why you didn't even tell me to my _face_ that you cheated on me?" The scorn in her voice was deadlier than any sword. "I found out in the _newspaper_."

Alexander's mouth was suddenly very dry. He'd never been able to bring himself to tell Angelica, and so when he'd published the pamphlet she still hadn't _known_ , and he was beginning to realize that might not have been the best course of action …

"I … I didn't think of it," he stammered.

"That's not why. You didn't tell me because you're a _coward_." Angelica's voice was sharp enough to cut steel. "You fought in the war, and you were still too much of a _coward_ to tell me to my face what you'd done. Now, you have one last chance, Alexander. Tell me why you published that pamphlet."

"I had to! It was the only way – I had to protect my legacy. They would have charged me with embezzlement, I _had_ to write my way out!" It had been the right decision, he was sure of it, and Angelica couldn't convince him otherwise. She would come around, he was confident. It was just a matter of finding the right argument. "You swore you wouldn't get in the way of my ambition, Angelica!"

She slapped him across the face, hard.

"How dare you use that as a defense. How _dare_ you even _try_ to defend yourself with that," she hissed.

He shrank away as his face began to sting. "Even if I assume the counterfactual _fairy tale_ that this idiocy does anything but burn your reputation and ambition to the _ground_ , I see no reason why I am still bound by that promise. Or don't you remember what you promised me in return?"

Angelica stepped closer, face inches from his. "Did you stop to think _once_ , about what this would do to _my_ ambitions? I can see by the look on your face that you did not. If you were wondering, then do allow me to explain. In the social spheres in which I operate, and in which my ambitions lie, everything – _everything_ – depends on reputation. Since you published your affair, the vultures have already begun to descend. I am an outcast. The woman who couldn't even control her own husband. And not one time before you published that pamphlet did you stop to think about how you were breaking your _own_ promise. Though I suppose you were too busy breaking your wedding vows to notice." The disdain was dripping from every word she spoke.

"But I understand, now, why you published it. I probably should have seen it sooner."

Alexander felt the beginnings of hope stir, that Angelica might finally have understood.

"You wrote that pamphlet because you're a selfish, insecure child who never learned how to take a hit. Someone makes an accusation against you, and you just _have_ to prove them wrong, with no thought to the effects your actions will have on yourself and anyone who cares about you."

"It's not like that!" Alexander defended himself automatically, although doing so probably only made things worse for him. "It was a sacrifice! You've never had a career, you don't understand –"

"Stop."

Alexander felt his mouth stop moving of its own accord, as his mind continued to rage.

"We're done."

Angelica stepped back from where she had been standing, uncomfortably close to him in her fury. She shook her head slowly, disappointment and disdain plain on her face. When she spoke, her words were softer, calmer. "Just answer me one last question, Alexander." Her eyes searched his, as keen and perceptive as ever. "Why didn't you just take a break, the one time I asked it of you?" Hints of desperation began to tinge her words, and she spoke almost pleadingly, more emotion slowly creeping into her voice as her control wavered. "Why is it you could say no to me, say no to _Eliza_ , and not say no to Maria Reynolds?"

He flinched when she said Maria's name.

Pain entered her words as she continued, voice still quiet, though rising in intensity. "Was I not enough? Was that it?" Suddenly she was almost shouting. "Why! Answer me!"

He stammered in response, mouth very dry. "No – no – it wasn't that. It was never that!" Now Alexander was the one who was pleading, begging Angelica to understand, unable to defend himself against this new attack. "I missed you, I was alone and I missed you and so I –"

He was interrupted by Angelica's derisive laughter. "I'm sorry, was that supposed to make me feel better? 'I missed you so much that I cheated on you with another women'? How touching."

She stepped back from him, face showing nothing but disgust. Alexander stood before her, silent.

"Leave."

"What?"

" _Leave_ ," repeated Angelica. "You forfeited your right to this house when you brought Maria Reynolds into our bed."

He flinched again, as Angelica spat out the name. Nonetheless, he managed to force out a few words.

"Where will I go?"

Angelica's laugh returned, cruel and utterly humorless. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as she considered her next words. And in Angelica's mind, the last restraints fell away, because Alexander was being so obliviously _stupid_ , and had refused to even admit to any wrongdoing. He had shown himself unworthy of the least pity she might have bestowed him. She turned to her cruelest, most vicious attacks, words designed to rend and tear, words that she had always been too kind or too controlled or too empathetic to use. Now, she was only furious, and she was done holding back.

"You mean none of your friends are sympathetic? What a shame. If you can't afford a house on your own, then maybe you should go asking on the street. _Pass a plate around_. You've done it before. Put yourself at strangers' mercies, and see who _exactly_ is moved to pity by your story, this time around."

Alexander stood stunned. Agonizing ideas raced through his head, following the tracks Angelica's words had laid out for them. That all his efforts to rise above his station had been for naught. That his writing had failed him. That he would have to once again plead for the kindness of others. That he might just _fail,_ amount to nothing, be forgotten to history. They were all the thoughts he never allowed himself to think.

He'd told Angelica about his childhood, but he'd never told her those secret fears. And somehow, she had looked at him and seen exactly which injuries had never healed, exactly where he was still vulnerable. Now she had used that knowledge to wound, to attack him with pinpoint precision and merciless cruelty. He hated himself for how much it hurt, for how shaken he felt in the wake of her attacks, hated himself for the tightness of his throat and the moisture in his eyes.

Angelica's eyes were still fixed on him, pitiless.

Alexander turned and fled. He got to the door in time to hear her final whisper.

"I expect to find your things gone by tomorrow. You'll come back while I'm not here if you value your life."

* * *

Alexander returned to the house later that day, when he knew Angelica was out, and found Eliza, sitting in the seat her sister had vacated. He didn't know what to expect. Eliza was the kindest, most forgiving person he knew, and he didn't yet know whether she would extend that forgiveness to him.

"Eliza, I – you – forgive me?" He wasn't sure even in his own mind what he was asking her, whether he meant 'do you forgive me' or 'will you.'

Eliza stared at him, eyes sparkling with unshed tears. "I'll forgive you when Angelica does." Her eyes didn't leave his.

He couldn't move. Her gaze was as paralyzing as Angelica's in its own way, and he stared back, transfixed. She didn't say another word, just looked at him in silent disappointment.

Angelica's words had hurt more than this. She had meant them to, had spent a lifetime shaping words to her will, just as Alexander himself had. But just as Angelica could shape words, Eliza could shape silence. Sometimes, her silence was warm and comforting. Now it hung heavy around him. The certainty that had supported him as he had stood before his wife was swept out from under him by this silence, and it occurred to him for the first time that he might have made a mistake.

Suddenly, he couldn't stand to be there any longer, and he turned away, walking up the stairs to the room he had once shared with Angelica. He found his things already packed and waiting outside the door. He took them without once entering the bedroom, as he knew she had intended.

Then he had to turn back. In that instant, he would have renounced his legacy in order to not pass through Eliza's silent stare a second time. But there was only one way out of the house, and so he crossed the room, moving as quickly as he could. He was halfway across when he heard Eliza's voice.

"Wait."

He froze instantly.

"I've been talking to Angelica." Dread filled him again. "We've agreed that the children don't deserve to suffer for this. Give us the address you're staying at, and the ones who want to will come and visit you once a week."

Silence filled the room again, and he knew he was dismissed. One of Eliza's phrases crossed his mind. 'Look around, look around, at how lucky you are to be alive right now.' He left, eyes never straying from the ground beneath his feet.


	12. Stay Alive (Reprise)

Alexander heard a knock at the door, and went to open it, surprised. The only people who visited him at this address were the children, and their visits were only on Saturdays.

He opened the door and found Philip standing outside, brothers and sisters absent, fire in his eyes.

"Dad!" exclaimed Philip, hugging his father briefly.

"What's going on?" he asked, bringing his son inside.

This set off a tirade from Philip. "You should have heard what that idiot said about you, Dad – in front of the whole school – how dare he – you should have _heard_ –"

"Slow down," Alexander interrupted. "Who are you talking about?"

"George Eacker! He gave a speech – he insulted you –"

Slowly, through frequent questions, Alexander drew out the full story, albeit punctuated with frequent expletives and angry rants on Philip's part. George Eacker had insulted Alexander during a speech at Philip's school, and now Philip – and now Philip was going to duel him.

Philip was going to be in a duel. His son was there, asking him for advice because he was going to be in a duel.

Alexander's mind was made up. Philip should never have to stare down the barrel of a gun. Alexander seen that bleak view too many times to ever wish it upon his son. Too often during the war, he hadn't known whether he would live to see the next day; Philip should never, ever have to feel that uncertainty. Philip couldn't be allowed to duel. He would stop Philip from rising to the bait Eacker had offered, ensure that he put his safety first instead.

But Alexander could see the fury in his son's face. He remembered. How many times had he felt the same burning anger that Philip was feeling now? The need to duel. The need to make right, through nothing but his own courage and stubbornness, an intolerable wrongness in the world. And how would he have felt, all those times, if he had been told not to rise to the bait, to put his mere safety above true, righteous fury?

Philip wasn't a child anymore. Alexander couldn't just listen to his instincts now, couldn't just keep Philip as far away as possible from things that went "bang" and killed.

Philip was nineteen. An adult, the age Alexander had been when he had joined the revolution. The advice he gave now had to be the advice he would give to an adult, something that would serve his son and keep him safe in the real world, not just the the world of children.

It was strange, thinking like this, in terms of responsibilities and consequences. It was strange, seeing the anger and passion seated across from him, instead of coursing through his own veins. It was strange being the one saying to slow down, to make the responsible choice. Whether this experience was a natural part of fatherhood, he didn't know. Angelica would understand it. She had always been better than him at that sort of thing. He would have to ask her tonight –

Except he wouldn't be asking her tonight, because she never wanted to see his face again.

Philip was looking at him expectantly. Alexander looked his son in the eyes and gave him the best advice he knew how.

"Fire your weapon in the air. This will put an end to the whole affair."

* * *

"Where is he?" The words left Alexander's lips, frantic and rushed. Where is my son? What's happened to him? Will he survive? Why is he here? Why is he in a hospital, not at home, comfortable and happy and _safe_?

He knew the answer to the last question. It was his fault, all his fault, he had let Philip go into a duel, with guns and danger, and now Philip had a bullet inside him, was bleeding and dying and Philip couldn't be dying but he was, _he was_ , Philip was _dying_ _(and Philip couldn't be dying)_ and –

There he was.

Time seemed to slow as Alexander caught sight of his eldest son. It was as if his thoughts had to move through water to reach his brain. He walked forward as if in a trance, until he stood at Philip's side. He noticed numbly that the bed was stained with blood.

"Philip."

Philip looked up at him, eyes slow to focus. "Pa." He took a deep, rasping breath, then continued, the words taking too long to arrive in Alexander's ears. "I aimed for the sky, Pa. I promise, I aimed for the sky."

"I know, Philip. You did everything just right."

"It wasn't even at ten, Pa. And – and –" Philip broke off, coughing hoarsely. His brow was clouded with confusion, remnants of a child's conception of fairness, of right and wrong. Alexander knew what Philip wanted to ask. If I did everything right, why did everything go wrong? Why did he shoot before the count of ten? Why am I here, bleeding, shot _– dying_ – _(but Philip couldn't be dying)_ if I did everything right?

Alexander couldn't answer. How could he? How could he look into his son's face and tell him the truth, that the world hadn't ever been fair? How could he explain a world where your father could lead you astray, where duellists didn't have to be honorable, a world where you could be shot even when you didn't do anything wrong?How could any father force their dying son to confront the terrible, cruel unfairness of the world? _(and Philip couldn't be dying)_

So he said the only other answer there was, the only answer that could preserve some last fragment of Philip's innocence. That nothing was wrong. That things were still fair. That Philip wasn't dying at all _(because Philip couldn't be dying)_ , would be well again in the morning. He could almost convince himself it was true.

"It's okay, Philip. It's all going to be okay. You didn't do anything wrong. You'll be just fine." Wasn't this what fathers were supposed to do? Weren't they supposed to comfort their sons? Tell them everything would be okay? He thought so. He didn't have much experience with what fathers were supposed to do.

Philip nodded, accepting the words for what they were: a comfort, if not a truth. "When I get better," Philip paused to draw a rasping breath, "can we take a walk in the park?"

Alexander nodded mutely.

In his heart, he knew that knew Philip was just playing along, that the boy knew he would never get better. But the pretense was worth it, even if it couldn't last. To have just five more minutes to simply be father and son. He had never spent enough time being Philip's father. Now that time was nearly up, and he grasped desperately at every moment they had left together. There was so much he should have done differently, back when he had still had time to do it.

"I love you so much, Philip."

It was as close to an apology as he could manage, for – everything. For not being a better father. For never being there. For managing, the one time he was, to send his son into a – _fatal_ – duel _(but Philip couldn't be dying!)_.For everything he could name. For the millions of things he couldn't.

Philip nodded, and smiled. Alexander could see in his son's eyes that he understood Alexander's apology, and all it entailed. And for some reason beyond imagining, Philip had forgiven him.

"I love you too, Pa."

* * *

There was a wordless scream on Angelica's lips as she raced into the hospital room. In an instant, she was standing beside Philip's bed. She paid no heed to Alexander, who standing mere inches away. Philip was bleeding, he was hurt –

"Ma," Philip spoke.

The world seemed to freeze with that one word. It pierced her heart as every other movement ceased. Her thoughts stilled, focused, until there was nothing else in the universe except Philip and her.

"Ma," he repeated. The word was strangely emphasized, as if what he was about to say was the most important thing in the world. In that moment, it was.

"You taught me … everything I know," Philip continued slowly, shaping each word with care, trying to make each word do the job of thousands, in the little time he had left.

"Philip." She couldn't say anything else. She needed to say his name, needed to hold his hand, needed to know he wasn't gone yet.

He shook his head once, a raw, jerky movement.

"Can you teach me … one last thing?"

She choked, forced herself to respond. "Always. What – what do you want to know?"

"What happens when you die?" The question was spoken simply, without fuss, as if they were back at the dining room table, and Philip was just asking her to go over a particularly tricky concept.

Angelica couldn't speak. She knew what the answer was supposed to be. She had given it to her children before, had said "you go to a better place," and "you go to the other side," and "you find everyone waiting for you." She couldn't say any of those things now. They were words you said to comfort a child who was standing beside the deathbed of a grandparent. They were not the words you said to a child who was slowly bleeding out on an ever-reddening hospital bed. What words were there to say, when it was your child who was dying?

In the end, she settled on the truth.

"I don't know." The words came out in a whisper, hushed and miserable and frightened.

Philip smiled. "I'll find out soon, Ma. And then," he paused, coughing, the sound far too harsh, "then, I can be the one to teach you."

She wanted to comfort him, every motherly instinct telling her to lie, to tell her son that he'd be fine, that he had plenty of time left before him. She couldn't do it. Any breath might be Philip's last, and every word she had left with him was too precious to waste on a lie. She smiled back, tears running down her cheeks.

"I'd be honored to be your student, Philip."

He opened his mouth, suddenly childlike, full of faux solemnity. In that moment, she almost believed the act.

"Lesson one. Dying isn't," he coughed again "isn't very fun. Avoid it," another cough, "when possible." He laughed, the sound mangled.

Words were lost in her throat as a sharp pain grew there, accompanying her tears. She nodded.

"Lesson … lesson …" Philip's voice was weak, and growing weaker. "Lesson … two …"

His words halted, and his body grew still. His eyes stared up at her, blank and empty.

There was a moment of frozen silence.

"Philip!"

She heard the anguished scream, and then realized it had come from her own lips. It sounded like the cry of an animal, raw and fearful. The world seemed to be made of glass, sharp and brittle, about to shatter into millions of pieces. She shook, holding her son's body in her arms. Then gently, ever so gently, she kissed him on the forehead, and whispered a soft "goodbye" to him, one last word, though he could no longer hear or understand. What else could there possibly be to say?


	13. It's Quiet Uptown

Alexander heard a knock at his door, and went to open it. To his surprise, he found Angelica standing outside.

"Angelica, I'm so –"

She shook her head, and he silenced immediately. She looked exhausted, and her eyes were rimmed with red. "I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear – anything, from you."

She took a deep breath. "I don't forgive you. Don't think I'm here because I forgive you. As far as I'm concerned, you don't deserve to know our children."

"But," Angelica's breath hitched, and she seemed almost close to tears. "But. We're moving uptown, and you're going to come with us. There'll be a room prepared for you. Because – because Elizabeth, she's, she hasn't – since Philip died, she's not been, she hasn't," she paused, wiping her eyes, "she won't respond to us. It's like she doesn't recognize us. She just keeps, keeps asking for Philip, and, and sometimes for you, too, I think it's because you left just around when Philip did? And, I don't know what to do – nothing has helped. I thought, I thought," Angelica took in another breath, then finished quietly, "I can't bring Philip back. But I can bring her back her father. If that's what will help her … " Her voice trailed off to a whisper. "I can't lose her too."

Alexander stared at his wife, silent tears streaming down both of their faces. He had never seen her this discomposed. He wanted to speak, but he didn't know what to say. He didn't think Angelica would want him to speak anyway.

"Here's the address. Come the day after tomorrow."

She left him, and he stood there, speechless, holding the paper she had shoved into his hands as if it were a lifeline.

* * *

Alexander brought his belongings to the new house two days later, as specified. He found a room that was clearly meant to be his. It was bare, with only a bed, a desk and a chair. There was a stack of papers on the desk and something hanging on the wall above it. Seeing the papers brought a pang to his chest, remembering the essays he and Angelica used to leave for each other, their former closeness.

He approached the desk, and saw what the papers were. _The Reynolds Pamphlet_ , all ninety-five pages. No, Angelica had most certainly not forgiven him. Then he looked up at what was hanging above the desk, and it felt like a physical blow. It was the newspaper clipping announcing Philip's death. Angelica's message was very, very clear. _Look where your words got you in the end._

* * *

Angelica got up in the morning, and saw a single sheet of paper lying on the dining room table. It was a rough sketch, clearly drawn by Alexander. The man was no great artist, but he had taken lessons from John Laurens during the war, and the drawing before her was unmistakably –

Philip. Laughing, hair cut the way it had been when he had died.

Something broken inside her broke a little bit more. She understood Alexander's message as easily as if he had said it into her ear. _I have no words. I'm sorry._

* * *

Every day, she woke up to find a new picture. Philip, smiling. Philip, writing. Philip, talking. As a teenager, as a child, as an infant, and one that could only be Philip's ninth birthday. Philip, alive, happy, _there_. Angelica couldn't bring herself to throw them out. Yes, they were drawn by Alexander, but they were still Philip. There weren't many pictures of him. And, although she didn't admit it, even to herself, the drawings were also a peace offering, one that she couldn't quite bring herself to destroy. She just kept them, one on top of the other, in one of her dresser drawers.

One day, the picture was of Philip, lying as he had when he'd died. Angelica wondered, for a moment, if Alexander had run out of memories of their son, having seen him so infrequently. Whatever the reason, it was too much. She took out a clean sheet of paper and wrote her own message, hand shaking slightly.

 _It doesn't bring him back_.

She left the note on the table for Alexander.

* * *

The following morning, there was no picture. The morning after that, though, there was a note in response to her own. It was as if Angelica's five words had given Alexander permission to unleash everything in his mind. Angelica could see, as she picked it up to read, how different it was from Alexander's usual writing style, which she knew so well. His thoughts were disconnected, random. He sometimes slipped into French, seemingly without meaning to. It was as if his center had been blown away, as if something deep inside him had shattered. She read, translating every few sentences.

 _Washington told me, once, that he led his men into a massacre. Is this how it feels? You have no control who lives and who dies. So who chooses? Washington is dead now too. He taught me how to say goodbye, but I can't seem to remember now. But it shouldn't be like this. It should never be like this. Laurens died, too. He should never have, the war was already won! He should have lived and celebrated with us. But God and those redcoats didn't get the message. God didn't get the message about Philip either. I've been in a dozen duels and no one was hurt, and this was Philip's first. Philip, come home! Please, come home. I miss you. Washington told me that day that history had its eyes on me. Everything I've done since then and I've said it was for my legacy. What have I done in the name of my legacy? How much have I ruined for it? But what was my legacy, if not Philip? What, if not Elizabeth? He should have been the one to outlive me. I fought in the war because he was supposed to survive! He was always supposed to be the one to survive. I was risking my life for him. I would have died a million times over for him. Didn't he know that? How could he risk his life for me? How could I let him? I made every mistake, I tried to be his father a million years too late. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Philip. I should never have let you go. My mother was holding me when she died. We were both sick, but she didn't let go. The last thing she said was "survive." I wanted her to survive. Why did she die and not me when we were both sick? Now I understand. No parent should outlive their child. Never Never Never. Not Philip. Not Philip! It should have been me. We were both sick and my mother was the one to die and so it_ _should have been me_ _! Not Philip. Never Philip. It's always been wrong, all wrong, who lives and who dies. But this was worse than any of it. Philip. Philip, come home. We have a new house now. You never lived here, but you would like it. It's quiet here. I won't ever let you go if you just come back! Please! I'd do anything for you to come back. Please, just come back home one more time, Philip. Please._

* * *

The evening after he had left the note, Alexander walked past the master bedroom to find the door slightly open. He paused, wondering if he should just keep walking, and he saw Angelica sitting on the side of the bed. He didn't know if it was the right choice, but he made it anyway, and stepped into the room for the first time.

Angelica looked at him, face devoid of all emotion.

"I saw your pictures." Her voice was flat.

But she hadn't turned him away, and so he stayed there, watching her, taking her in. He had missed her. She was still beautiful, for all that grief and pain had changed her.

"Angelica." He spoke her name softly, quietly, like a prayer.

"He's dead."

Alexander nodded. It wasn't like there was anything else he could say.

Something shifted in Angelica's face. It was like the first cracks appearing in a mask.

"I ought to hate you more, but I don't. Maybe I just don't have room to feel anything else."

Alexander just stared at her in silence. Waiting.

"It all just seems … stupid. Pointless. Like we're children fighting on a playground. What's the point of fighting, when Philip is dead."

This was worse than seeing Angelica's fury after the affair. Now, she seemed empty. Hollow.

He moved closer, and when she didn't make any move to stop him, sat down on the bed beside her. Not too close, but there. He left his hand on the stretch of blanket between them, an offering.

"I'm tired of being mad. I'm just so … tired, Alexander."

It was the first time she had said his name since Philip had died.

They sat there together for a long time.

Eventually, she reached out and took his hand in hers. Her voice was so quiet he almost couldn't hear it. "I missed you."


	14. Your Obedient Servant

Aaron Burr was not, by nature, a confrontational person. His usual response to an insult was to smile politely and ignore it, and he could count on one hand the number of times he had actually gotten into a fight with someone. Seeking retribution was not something that he did, ever.

But there was something different about this time, this election. Something different about losing the presidency. Something different about _Hamilton_. And it was that something that compelled Burr, contrary to all habit and to his own better judgment, to write a letter.

Dear Mr. Hamilton,

I have always considered you a friend, and I would be loathe to put to an end such an amicable state of affairs due to mere circumstance. Yet events have conspired such that I feel I must discuss them with you openly, lest failure to do so cause animosity between the two of us to rise to unacceptable levels. Thus in the interest of such necessary communication, I present to you a list of offenses which you appear to have committed over the years. Know that I offer these grievances, not for any nefarious purposes, but in order that you may either refute their truthfulness, or acknowledge their accuracy and offer a path to redress and reconciliation.

First; That you, in the recent presidential election, did knowingly campaign against me, even going so far as to support the candidacy of a man whose every political belief is abhorrent to you; That you therefore could have had no other motive than my own downfall; and That your actions were a primary cause of my loss in said election;

Second; That you deliberately sabotaged my first bill in Senate; That said action had no political benefits to you, save my failure; That therefore your only motive could again have been malicious intent toward my own person; and

Third; That since the day we were first acquainted with one another, you have sought in countless small ways to undermine my authority and political capital, in order to advance your own ambition; and That such actions have led to numerous smaller failures and slights against my own career, which have been mirrored by unmerited successes in yours.

Unlike your esteemed self, I have no desire to recklessly engage in arguments without first possessing full, factual information. I await your reply, and sincerely hope you will prove able to better illuminate the circumstances surrounding these unfortunate events.

I have the honor to be Your Obedient Servant

A. Burr

Within days of his posting the letter, a reply had arrived from Hamilton.

Dear Mr. Vice President,

For one who claims to postpone arguments until possessing full information, you have made a woefully poor job of doing so. I would contend that your list is riddled with inaccuracies and logical inconsistencies.

First, you claimed that my interference was a "primary cause" of your loss in the recent election. I feel I must remind you, then, that our government is, in fact, democratic, and that under our Constitution, presidents are chosen by the will of the populace, not by the opinion of any one man. As such, I could not possibly have single-handedly engineered your loss. And while I am flattered by such a compliment, do you truly think that, had I the ability to sway the course of an election, either John Adams or Thomas Jefferson would ever have ascended to highest office?

Second, you seem quite ill-informed as to the true identities of your "saboteurs," as you so melodramatically call them. I will say nothing further on the matter, save that you should perhaps look more closely into the identities of the hidden hands behind the failure of your Senate bill.

Third, you are remarkably quick to place blame for your career's "numerous smaller failures" onto another's actions. Are you so certain that you were not passed up for such positions as General Washington's aide-de-camp or first Treasury Secretary due to the faults of your own incompetent ability? Your histrionics suggest a vast conspiracy of malicious intent stretching back decades; are not your own shortcomings the more likely culprit?

I hope that my input has been of use to you in understanding these most difficult and complex of events, and has strengthened your rather tenuous grasp on the facts and falsehoods of which you speak.

I have the honor to be Your Obedient Servant

A. Ham

Burr stared at the letter, breathing hard. Everything about it repulsed him. The taunting "Vice President" in the first line, mocking him for his failure to rise to higher office. The handwriting subtly different from Hamilton's usual script, as if he were writing in a hurry, as if the letter was just another throwaway dispatch. The blatant insults and insinuations of his own stupidity that ran through the letter. Every sentence seemed perfectly calibrated to incite maximal anger. He wrote back, barely keeping the pen from shaking in his hand.

Dear Mr. Hamilton,

I have no desire to grow irritable or irrational, yet I cannot conceal the fact that your recent letter has frustrated me. Over and over, you discredit my claims, and yet you offer nothing but empty rhetoric and innuendo in support. We have both practiced law, Mr. Hamilton, and I believe we both know the value of proper evidence. If I am to do otherwise than dismiss your words as "riddled with inaccuracies," as you so eloquently put it, I shall require from you proof, and the specific cases of which you speak, as well as at least a modicum of respect towards my person, rather than blatant insults disguised as facts.

If you are incapable of understanding such "most difficult and complex" of requirements as those listed above, do kindly allow me to explain in simpler language.

I want answers, Alexander, for what you have done. Your letter did not meet my satisfaction. Try again, or prepare to bleed.

I have the honor to be Your Obedient Servant

A. Burr

Dear Mr. Vice President,

I am trying very hard to forgive your words. I know you have had a hard time of recent years, and I am trying to make allowances. I am sorry if your life is difficult without your wife, but at a certain point, circumstances cannot excuse the inexcusable.

You have made multiple accusations against me, so full of holes that mere logic is sufficient to sweep them to pieces. Yet not only do you still hold me culpable of these absurdities, you attack me for not providing evidence against your ludicrous falsehoods. Your rudeness becomes ever more blatant, this time accompanied by outright threats, and I am running out of patience for your unprovoked attacks. The responsibility to provide answers lies solely with you.

I have the honor to be Your Obedient Servant

A. Ham

For the first time in decades, Aaron Burr knew rage. All the petty insults Hamilton had offered him swam before his eyes. It provoked him beyond imagining, the way Hamilton continued to act as if he was the one being reasonable, while Burr was making unfounded attacks. Why did Hamilton always resort to the debate tactics of a child?

And how dare the man mention Theodosia, when the grief of her passing still haunted him, when he knew for a fact that Hamilton had lost a son not long after Theodosia's death? Losing family had always been something he and Hamilton had had in common, both orphans determined to prove their worth. That Hamilton would use it so casually, just to score cheap points, lost the man any respect Burr might have had for him.

Burr almost couldn't believe Hamilton capable of such pointless cruelty. Yet at the same time, he somehow felt he should have seen it coming. If anyone in the world was capable of that level of rudeness, it was Hamilton. Being so crude and offensive ought to require years of study, but it seemed to come naturally to Hamilton, who never even realized he was doing it. And Burr had had enough.

Dear Mr. Hamilton,

Here is your answer.

Weehawken. Dawn.

Guns. Drawn.

I have the honor to be Your Obedient Servant

A. Burr

Dear Mr. Vice President,

I'll be there. Sunrise.

I have the honor to be Your Obedient Servant

A. Ham

The next morning, Burr left the house before dawn, stopping only to kiss his sleeping daughter, and to leave her a note, just in case. There was no need to bring weapons; he was the challenger, so _code duello_ dictated that Hamilton bring the guns. He was unladen save for his fury as he stepped carefully into the rowboat.

As Burr crossed the Hudson, he could see people on the opposite shore, the doctor and Hamilton's second standing on the beach. Hamilton himself was standing on the top of the hill. Burr strained to make out the face of the man who had antagonized him beyond tolerance.

But the figure on the hill wasn't Alexander Hamilton. Nor was it a man.

Angelica Hamilton stood in the early dawn light, pistol at her side.


	15. Best of Wives and Best of Women

_*Three weeks earlier*_

Angelica's mind raced as the letter fell from her limp fingers. She had opened the correspondence from Burr, intending to brief her husband about it later. Now, every bone in her body warned her that Alexander must never see this letter. For some not-yet-verbalized reason, Angelica was absolutely certain that the paper before her would change the course of her life.

As if in response to this strange conviction, thoughts began to flash through her mind at lightning speed, racing to understand what it was her subconscious already knew.

The first point was background. Most people considered Aaron Burr a calm, even-tempered man. But Angelica prided herself on being a good judge of character, and, in the back of her mind, she had always known better. Burr was certainly non-reactive in his day-to-day life, but it was the tranquility of a volcano, with all his anger channeled beneath the surface to boil and grow. Angelica knew his ilk, and knew that one day, all his simmering resentment would prove too much. Decades of accumulated fury would all burst out at once, and people would get hurt. Angelica had known this since she met the man, but had never paid much heed to the fact, except to quietly mark Burr as dangerous.

Second point. The explosion was coming, and soon. She could see the cracks already beginning to show in the letter he had sent. That Burr had sent it at all attested to a seismic shift in his actions; never before had he shown the least inclination to bring up past injustices. Yet here he was, listing offense after offense. Even the writing itself was laced with other, smaller clues, little words like "malicious intent" and "necessary" and "redress," subtly pointing towards impending danger.

Third. Angelica could see exactly what the explosion would look like. Each line of text mapped it out plainly before her eyes, showing her every fault line, every point that would buckle and break under the pressure. And, more urgently, she could see _who_ those years of rage would be directed at.

Alexander.

It was as clear as day. The careful way Burr tried to avoid offense, alluding to past friendship. The veiled insults, subtly calling Alexander hot headed and rash, just stretching the borders of politeness. And most dangerous of all, the third "grievance," so vague as to be impossible to refute, quietly blaming Alexander for everything that had ever gone wrong in Burr's life.

And so the fury from every insult Burr had ever received, from every time Burr had ever smiled instead of retaliating, all would be directed at her husband. It was only a matter of time.

Fourth point.

 _(And this was the one that had been pounding at the inside of her head like a drumbeat, chilling her to the bone, pressing her to greater and greater urgency.)_

Burr had attacked Angelica's father in order to strike a political blow against Alexander. He had sought retribution, not against Alexander, but against his family. In the case of Philip Schuyler, all those years ago, all that had been lost was a senate seat. This time, when the true explosion came, when Burr's wrath carried true peril, he could go after anyone. Anyone Alexander cared about could be in danger. Eliza. The children.

Burr could hurt the children.

Fifth. No one would ever, ever hurt her family again. Not George Eacker, and certainly not Aaron Burr. She had been too late for Philip, and only through that crucible had she learned to really, truly make time for her children. To watch them grow, to treasure them as they deserved, to keep them safe lest they be taken from her too soon. It was not a lesson she would have to learn twice.

There was nothing that Angelica wouldn't do to keep her children safe. Which meant something had to be done about Burr.

From Angelica's resolve came the outline of a plan. The explosion could not be stopped. Burr could not be calmed down, could not be persuaded back to his former quietude. To attempt it would be futile, only delaying the inevitable.

But anything she understood, she could control. Angelica was a master of manipulation, and if she was the one who provoked Burr to explosion, she could make it happen on her own terms. With care, she could raise Burr's ire to breaking point, all the while honing it, directing and focusing. Playing with fire. Shaping the deadly rage until it would do exactly what she needed, changing Burr's mind so subtly that he never knew he was being played, so that when the explosion came, she could force it onto just one target. Keep anyone else from becoming collateral.

The prospect reminded her of the games she had played so long ago, before she had met Alexander, when she had been young and bored with her own brilliance. Toying with the men around her, trying to find the precise line at which each suitor would crack. And while before, the fun had been in staying just shy of that critical line, her job now would be to push Burr across it as accurately as possible.

It was a task that would require delicacy, precision, level-headedness, and a talent for reading people. It was a task, in short, that Angelica was uniquely suited for, and one that Alexander could never hope to accomplish unless by sheer luck.

So for the safety of her family, Angelica would enrage Burr in just the right ways to keep him contained. She would do it to perfection.

And if that meant directing Burr's wrath onto herself, so that she could control the explosion at every step of the way, so be it.

With that, Angelica drew out a new sheet of paper and began penning a response, keeping her handwriting as close as possible to Alexander's, already calculating the necessary manipulations. _Dear Mr. Vice President …_

* * *

Angelica woke early on the morning of the duel. She kept the lamps unlit for as long as possible, preferring darkness as she dressed and prepared. The house was still and silent as she carefully retrieved her husband's pistols, and full of shadows as she gave a brief prayer to whoever might be listening. It was only when no other tasks remained to be completed, when she could put it off no further, that Angelica returned to the bedroom that she and Alexander now shared, and lit a single candle. She sat down at the desk, watching the flickering light illuminate her husband's sleeping face.

Part of her longed to wake him, to speak to him, to tell him everything. To simply say good morning, to laugh with him, to _be_ with him, just in case this was her last chance to say goodbye.

But of course, there could be no "good morning." Angelica's current state of disquiet left her ill-inclined to lie, and if Alexander learned of the duel, he might meddle with it in all manner of ways. His interference could lay her carefully laid plans to ruin, and put their family in danger. She couldn't wake him.

So she settled for a different sort of goodbye. She smoothed out a fresh sheet of paper and began to write.

My Dearest, Alexander

If you are reading this, then I am most likely dead, killed in a duel against Aaron Burr.

I know you will want explanations, of what I have done and why I have done it, of the circumstances leading up to what must seem a causeless duel. You will find your answers folded inside my copy of Paine's _Common Sense_. For now, suffice to say that, whether I live or die, I will have done what I thought necessary to protect our family. I shall say no more on the subject here, for it is not the past of which I wish to tell you, but the future.

I know that, upon my death, you will be lost. You will not know how to go on, and I will not be there for you to ask. So I will tell you, now, what you must do.

Be there for the children. When they are mourning me, be there for them, however deep in grief you may be. You must be there for them, to help them to continue past losing a mother. I was prepared to die for them; you must be prepared to live.

So be there. Beyond the big things, beyond grief, and sorrow, and even joy, be there. Be there for the everyday things. Be there to make sure Kitty goes to bed on time, and John and Richard eat their vegetables. Be there to help James with his homework and to hear Little Phil's first sentence. Be there to keep Elizabeth safe and happy, and to make sure Alex never does anything as reckless at nineteen as his namesake did.

There will be times when you don't know what to do, how to end an argument or settle a tantrum. Call on Eliza. Let her help you, for I sincerely believe her to be the best mother the world will ever see.

I know we were never the most attentive parents, you and I. I wish, now, that I had done better. But things must change after I am gone. You must change. You must change because without me, you will be all they have. You must do whatever it takes to make sure our children grow up well, even without a mother.

I suspect that John and Richard will have precious few memories of me, and Little Phil likely will not remember me at all. Please, tell them who I was, and what I did for them. Don't let me be forgotten. And most of all, tell each and every one of them how much I love them.

And you, my beloved, my Alexander. Keep going. Keep living. Do what needs to be done, change what needs to be changed. And remember, no matter what, that I have never stopped loving you since the day we met, and that I will always keep loving you, whatever shall become of me.

Yours, Forever,

Angelica


	16. The World Was Wide Enough

It was almost funny, observed some small, unhelpful corner of Angelica's mind, to see Burr's habitually calm face contorted with rage. He and his second had arrived on the beach not a minute before, and he had recognized her moments later. Now, he was close enough for Angelica to clearly see his furrowed brows, twitching muscles, and clenched jaw. Overlaid with the raw astonishment of recognition, his expression was a work of art.

"Mrs. Hamilton," Burr ground out through gritted teeth. "Where, pray tell, is your husband?"

Angelica mentally shook herself, refocused. She was here to start a duel, not to laugh at her enemy's fury. She returned her brain to the pattern of manipulation, part of her mind mapping out Burr's emotions, even as the rest formulated her responses almost instantaneously.

As her mind slid into delicate balance, Angelica heard herself reply. "I believe Alexander is currently asleep, without the faintest idea that either of us are here." Her voice was casual, though she maintained a hint of challenge in her gaze.

Burr's eyes narrowed. "That's not possible. He agreed to this duel himself."

"I'm afraid that's where you're wrong," she replied, falling easily into the conversation's rhythm, keeping her speech plain, her smile relaxed. "It was I who accepted your challenge."

She saw understanding dawn in his eyes as he whispered the name.

"A. Ham."

Angelica inclined her head. "Quite. I suppose it never occurred to you that there were two of that name?"

"How dishonest."

"To the contrary; I never claimed to be my husband. I simply let your assumptions do the work for me." She watched his face closely, determining what she would have to do for his rage to target her, instead of Alexander.

Where to start? The insults she had penned the past few weeks had infuriated the man; reminding him of their author could only aid in her goal.

"I meant every word of those letters."

Burr's eyes hardened at her words, disgust becoming visible in his features. From the intensity of his glare, he remembered her remarks about Theodosia. All the better.

"And in case you were wondering, it was I who sabotaged your senate bill. Rather clumsy to blame Alexander, wouldn't you say?" Her words were sharp, taunting.

The amount of hatred in his gaze was almost impressive. "You really are a vile, conniving creature, aren't you," Burr spat.

She returned the glare with one of her own, the air between them thick with fury. It was time for the challenge.

"The sun is nearly up, Burr," she said, deliberately leaving out the honorific. She extended one of the pistols towards him, handle first, the offer clear.

Eyes fixed on hers, Burr walked forward, step after deliberate step. Each one brought him that much closer to the irreversible. Now only seven feet separated them. Now six. Now five.

An arm's length away from her, Burr stopped. He was close enough to accept the proffered weapon, but his hands remained at his sides.

"I won't shoot a woman."

Interesting that chivalry was his final objection. She wouldn't have expected it. She wondered briefly at the implications, but quickly turned her thoughts back to the conversation, glad chivalry would be relatively easy to turn to her advantage.

"Then I can only surmise that you wish for me to shoot you," Angelica responded. "Female or not, you challenged me to a duel. Backing out now would be an act of unforgivable cowardice, not to mention dishonor."

She waited a long moment as Burr made his decision. Finally, he took the pistol in one smooth movement, and nodded to his second to begin the duel. The two duellists turned away from each other, and began to walk.

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

"Four."

"Five."

"Six."

"Seven."

"Eight."

"Nine."

Angelica felt herself draw breath, she turned on the spot, and –

"Number ten!"

* * *

One second. One single instant, between "ten" and "fire." One moment, between Angelica and the choice that would determine the rest of her life. Barely long enough to think.

But Angelica had always been good at stretching time, playing with it until it fit as she wanted it, until a day could last weeks and a minute could take hours. Now, when she needed it most, a second – this one, crucial second – was long enough for her to think hundreds of words, hundreds of sentences. Long enough for her to decide the trajectory of a single bullet.

If Angelica threw away her shot, who would be safe?

She would be, at the very least. Burr, with all his misgivings, still hesitated to shoot a woman. That would give her the first shot. Fire into the air, and she wouldn't be hurt.

But would Burr be satisfied with a bloodless, petticoat duel? Had she ever known him to simply be satisfied? Because if the duel wasn't enough, if Burr's anger didn't abate, then Angelica's family would once more be in danger. She would have already thrown away her only chance to protect them. Her children would pay the price for her own stupidity. The thought was intolerable.

So if Angelica shot. If she aimed for the kill. What then? Burr would have every reason to shoot back, old war instincts resurfacing in the moment before her bullet struck. Both of them would die. And then –

And then –

It was as if her mind had hit a stumbling block. What would happen next? Burr would shoot back, and then –

And then – what? Why couldn't she see it, predict it?

 _(A hospital bed, slowly staining red)_

She forced herself to think – surely Burr's threat would be removed, surely her husband and children would be distraught, surely –

But the part of her mind that plotted and planned seemed to have shut down entirely.

 _(An anguished, wordless scream)_

Angelica had enough information, she had run through the reasoning a thousand times in the days leading up to the duel. The decision had been so clear to her only ten minutes before. So why had her mind suddenly fallen silent? This was the most crucial moment of her life, and suddenly all her brilliance had vanished like ice after a thaw. What was wrong with her?

 _(A body lying like a broken doll across the sheets)_

Philip had died in a duel. A duel just like this one, standing with all the pride he could muster, determined to do right by his family.

And now here she was, Burr's pistol a mere twenty paces away.

She could die.

She could die. Here, now, today, on this dismal stretch of ground, not a mile from where her son had fallen.

What had she done? In her haste to protect her family, to keep them safe at all costs, what had she done? She had accepted that there was risk. Some small part of her might even have expected to die here. But there was a vast ocean of difference between accepting, even expecting danger, and seeing death approaching only a moment away. Now, faced with the possibility that she would never see another sunrise, Angelica looked back at the choice she had made – two weeks ago? three? – and wondered if it had been the last, greatest mistake of her life.

But the gun was still heavy in her hand, its trigger smooth under her finger, the cool metal reminding her that it was far too late to change her mind.

What would happen, if she took Burr's life at the expense of her own?

What had she said to Philip, on that dark day, beside a hospital bed? He had asked her what happened when you died, and she had given only three words. "I don't know." The terrible, final secret, all unknown and all unknowable. The great, unutterable "Lesson Two."

The vastness of it had snuck up on Angelica, hiding behind her head whenever she turned to look. Now, the looming enormity of death was directly before her, and it was paralyzing. A darkness greater and more complete than any other. A mystery so all-encompassing that she was utterly incapable of seeing beyond.

How did Alexander do it? How did he wake up every morning and think about his legacy? How could Alexander, who had looked death in the face so many times, distance himself enough to see past his own demise? Her husband lived for his legacy. He worked every day, not for the sake of a salary, but to build a legacy he'd never see.

But Angelica had never much cared about the promise of remembrance. She did not crave the attention of unborn generations. It was not for the sake of a legacy that she wrote and argued, that she delved into politics and economics, that she changed the world as it spun around her. No. Angelica did it all for the love of something far brighter than legacy.

The Game. That was what she called it, though of course it was far more than a simple word. "Game" called to mind chess, whist, and other idle pastimes, all similarly dull and simplistic. Why would anyone play a game with unchanging objectives, clear-cut sides, and conclusive victories? What was the point of playing if you couldn't change the rules?

Comparing chess to the Game was like comparing an astrolabe to the majesty of the night sky. Yes, an astrolabe had a certain beauty to it. Yes, it too mapped the stars. Yet an astrolabe was a piece of engraved metal that could fit in the palm of your hand, while the constellations were the greatest wonder of the natural world. And so while chess could prove an entertaining pastime for some, Angelica was drawn to a Game a thousand times sharper, brighter, and more wondrous.

Eliza said it was a light in her eyes, the gleam of excitement at the cleverness of a new idea.

Alexander called it cunning, creativity, the brilliance that had drawn him to her like a moth to flame.

Angelica had never been able to define the Game, but she knew it like she knew her own mind. It was the joy of a new perspective, of twisting the world just to see what shape it would come out. It was finding the argument in a debate that would fit with the one before it like pieces of a puzzle. It was her own words, interweaving with another's to create a harmony only the two of them could hear. It was the art in the simplest of sentences, and the most complex. It was finding a hidden part of someone to unlock and then turning the key. It was what she lived for, in the truest possible sense.

And in this final extreme, with everything else stripped away, when it was too late to turn back and impossible to look forward, when death was standing, tall and terrible before her, here and now, all that was left was to play the Game.

* * *

"Fire!"


	17. Who Lives Who Dies Who Tells Your Story

" _One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. Number ten!"_

" _Fire!"_

 _Two gunshots rang through the air._

 _Two bodies fell to the ground._

* * *

My dearest, Angelica,

It has been five years since I have spoken to you. Five years since I last saw your beautiful face, five years since I kissed you, five years since I heard your laugh. It has been five years to the day since that fateful duel, since my world fell to tatters around me. A letter beside my bed, a frenzied terror, a last embrace, and suddenly this world was broken beyond repair.

All my life, I have been building myself a fortress of paper and ink, an impregnable defense against all that creation might send my way. Yet you, in your wit and charm and brilliance, you found your way inside. You saw every place where my defenses were weak, and you built them stronger. You found the places where the foundation was flawed, and shifted all those pages to rest upon solid ground. All the while, you wrote as I did, each stroke of the pen building the walls up higher, until the whole fortress was as much yours as mine. It seemed, for a time, that nothing could touch us.

Then one day you were gone, and the writing around me fell to the beating wind, mere paper and ink.

It was the first time the written word failed me. I could not pick up a pen for a year after you died. It was not the same without you. It has been half a decade's work to piece back together the barest fragments of words that once danced at my fingertips. And now I am writing to you at long last. Even so, it was only at our son's suggestion that I thought to pen this letter at all. Every member of this family, even Little Phil, could feel our home grow darker as the anniversary of the duel approached. We all sought comfort in our own small ways, when grief threatened to overwhelm us. Yet it was only John who found his solace in the scratch of pen on paper, and it was he who saw that I so desperately needed to do the same.

All our children have changed much since last you saw them, through grief and responsibility and the simple passage of time, but I think it is John who has changed the most. Five years ago, he was a lively, rambunctious boy, constantly shouting and running from place to place, and getting into wrestling matches with his brothers. Now, he has revealed a quiet, patient manner rarely seen in boys of only thirteen. He will often sit for hours, reading and writing, with such complete concentration that I cannot bear to disturb him. He loses himself just as thoroughly as you always did when something properly caught your attention, and his sensitivity to the written word matches what yours or mine ever was. It is only when Richard, twelve now and with the energy to show for it, is nearby, that John displays his old exuberance, though it is usually manifested in fights that shake the whole house. Raucous as these disputes may be, they at least serve as a reassurance that we remain, in some small ways, unchanged from the days when you were still with us.

Cruelly, it is poor Elizabeth who is least changed. Her condition has not improved in these last five years. She still talks to Philip, and to you, still closes her eyes to the world and imagines this family is whole. We all do everything we can for her; I much doubt that there is one among us who has never wished to join her in her madness, to follow her into the world she dreams she lives in. We try instead to make reality as pleasant as we can, that she might come and visit for a little while. I bought her three parakeets off Charles Pinckney, for she has always had a fondness for birds. She and I play duets together, piano and voice, and she teases that the birds harmonize better than I.

As for Little Phil, he is growing well, now just turned seven and quite lively. I believe he has taken after his namesake in talent and intelligence, and his favorite stories are always tales of his heroic mother, the great Angelica Hamilton.

It is Kitty who reminds me most of you. You must only remember her as a pale, sickly child, for that is how she last appeared to you. But now she is radiant and as beautiful as her mother. She is quite the diplomat as well, and the only one save your dear sister who can settle John and Richard's famous arguments. One would never guess her to be at the turbulent age of sixteen, as her poise is unshakeable. It was her strength that we relied on most of all, I think, as she forced us together in our grief, triumphing over the lesser instincts that would have torn us apart.

Of all our children, it was Alex Jr. who drifted furthest. Only months after your death, he left to join the navy and fight on the Barbary Coast. His decision was hard on all of us, particularly James. The boy had looked up to Alex so much, and now found himself left behind, left to be the eldest son of a broken family. He may have envied his older brother, or may have hated him – there was an estrangement there, to say the least, though it has for the most part healed over since. As for why Alex left, I suspect it was for these very reasons: he was the eldest son of a family barely holding together; he was a young man who had had enough of mourning; he was looking to escape his sorrows through the numbness of war. It may have been for any or all of these reasons, but the fact remains that he left. I could not stop him. My few attempts were feeble and futile; even had my wits been properly about me, I doubt I would have succeeded. As you well know, Hamilton men of a certain age are almost impossible to control.

Scarce a year after his departure, Alex returned safely at the end of the war. It seems to me somewhat ironic that our family has always been safer during war than peacetime. Sometimes I wonder if we should all enlist for our own protection, though I suspect that such an extreme action would be tempting fate overmuch. Upon his return, Alex was still much isolated from the rest of the family, and began living alone. I regret that he was not immediately accepted back with open arms, but it was hard not to feel bitter, that while we had been healing and suffering together, he had been alone, uncaring of our strife. But the estrangement did not last long, for soon after his return from the war, Alex won back our good graces with one extraordinary act.

You see, at this time, Jefferson was president; as might be suspected of such a man, the nation's finances were not all as they should be. As a result, instead of paying our dear Alex for his service, the good administration bestowed upon him a land grant, that he might do as he wished with it.

And on that land, he built a village, and he named it after you.

Angelica, New York.

It is but a small town, perhaps two hundred people all told, along the banks of the Genesee river. I know you were never as concerned as I was about a legacy. But this town will remain after all who knew you are gone. It will remember to the world your name, and it will remind all those to come that one so beautiful as you once graced this Earth.

By way of closing remarks, my ever-beloved Angelica, I shall say this. You never did believe in an afterlife. We had many debates on the topic, and I still have the long pages you wrote about it. But if there is anything at all waiting on the other side, then I do not despair, for I know that I will rejoin you when my time here has run its course. Until then, I will remain among these poor mortals, awaiting a happy immortality by your side.

I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Alexander

* * *

A/N: This is the end of The Oldest and the Wittiest! Thank you for reading, and a huge thank you to everyone who left/leaves a comment! I would not have finished this story without you :)

A few notes, historical and otherwise:

\- I know this is not the ending many of you were hoping for, but at a certain point the story required it. If people are interested, I may post one or two alternate endings as one shots, but this will always be the official ending.

\- Angelica, NY is a real place. Angelica's eldest son Philip founded it and named it after her while she was still alive.


End file.
